


Lox, or The Indefinite Struggle of Heterosexuality

by Medusa (MyOhMandy)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bagel AU, Everyone Is Alive, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, M/M, Prompt Fic, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2018-04-30 00:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 50,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5143238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyOhMandy/pseuds/Medusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Will lives in NYC and works at a bagel shop. He keeps getting this weird handsome doctor who shows up every morning and always orders his fancy salmon bagels in bizarre metaphors that only Will can decipher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it all started with [this post](http://ourdeathswillstopnothing.tumblr.com/post/132523038291/when-i-first-start-shipping-something-i-need-a).....And a dare from a my amazing friend innuendium on tumblr. I hope you enjoy this wonderful mess we've made, I couldn't have done it without her.  
> I am literally going to bring in as mANY of the canon characters as physically possible this is who i am okay

“ _It’s that guy again,_ ” Beverly grumbled, scribbling the name of a customer onto a plastic coffee cup. “Please  _God_  go handle him. I don’t want Zeller to get a stick up his ass this early in the morning.” 

It was six a.m., March in New York City, and tourist season--people piling into the city all at once for a spring vacation. Will could spot the difference between the tourists and the natives based on their expression’s alone; New York City was cold as shit in March, the snow melted and magic of the holiday’s long gone, the wind whipping through the city, and the bagel shop was crowded with people desperate for coffee, breakfast, warmth and servers to bitch at.

Will got a look at the customer Beverly was eyeing; a well-dressed man with silver-blonde hair, late-to-mid-thirties.  _He_ was dressed for the weather, immaculate black pea coat buttoned over a neatly pressed grey suit, a navy blue scarf tied elegantly around his neck.

Will rolled his eyes and shot her a look;  _you owe me._  She gave him a playful shove towards the register, where he tried to tell Zeller to take a five.

“What? I've been here an  _hour_." He protested defensively. Zeller didn't like Will, didn't like working with him and didn't like being bossed around by him. Register was a good position in the morning, but Zeller was better working on bar and he knew it.

“That customer,” he lowered his voice and nodded discreetly in towards the tall stranger. “is not how you want to start your second hour.” 

"C'mon, Brian." Beverly barked, pulling bagels out of the small stove. "Don't give him shit, it's too early. Go on bar."

Zeller threw Will an indignant glare and left the register, shoving past Will to start the next order.

The man’s name was Hannibal--though Will feigned a lack familiarity with him around his coworkers when he could--showing too much familiarity with them had, in the past, led to several mishaps: Beverly tried constantly to set him up with customers he showed “too much” interest in. There was the psychiatrist, for example, that had come in a couple times in a row; long dark wavy hair and piercing blue eyes, as smart and scintillating as she was handsome. When Beverly had arranged the date, he'd been more than a little nervous, more than a little pleased. He'd met her in Central Park in the morning, the park alive with the colors of fall; orange and yellow leaves strewn about the grass, a soft breeze in the air--idyllic for a first date. She'd met him near 5th Avenue and 85th Street by the Met Museum, dressed in a simple black wrap around dress and blue chesterfield coat and black, practical boots that went up to her calves, a slightly taller women in a white quilted jacket and black dress pants, straight black hair halfway down her shoulders. It was her wife. 

(Thanks, Bev.)

It was all fun and games most of the time, joking about the snippy redhead that came in early Wednesday and stayed late on Thursday, typing away violently on her computer, the short blonde a couple years older than Will with an easy smile and a baby named Walter, Beverly imagining what her husband was like and what sort of affair they’d have. But, as Will revealed his general inability to sustain anything non-platonic, Beverly had grown more aggressive, teasing him when his eye lingered too long on _any_ customer, when he exchanged names with them or when regulars searched for him behind the counter with their eyes--it was becoming a work hazard. 

“I’m not into guys.” He’d had to insist after being teased for speaking too long to a well-dressed regular named Frederick. Generally, he didn't mind he teasing about men--but it had gotten so frequent he was beginning to worry she would start setting up dates. “And even _if_ I was, he’s an asshole.” _  
_

_“_ How do you know if you’ve never tried?” she’d winked, jabbing him in the rib with her elbow.

But, anyway--back to Hannibal.

“Good morning, what can I get you?” Will asked, an easy smile on his face as the he approached the register.

“Good morning,” Hannibal said, tugging the wool gloves from his hands, lips only _just_ curved in a smile, eyes dimly lit with the sentiment. His accent was thick and elegant and equipped on another person he likely would have had difficulty wading through it, but Hannibal spoke deliberately, with such care that Will rarely had to strain to understand him. “Are you familiar with Tuan mac Cairill?”

"Wasn’t he...from In Celtic mythology?” Will asked, leaning against the counter and nodding Beverly to the second register as more customers poured in. Hannibal’s orders had a habit of taking more time than others--the man was nothing if not enigmatic, and deciphering them was, at this point, exclusively Will’s responsibility. Today, however, Will thought he might guess correctly on the first attempt. “'He is reputed to be a wise and hardy man,'" Will recounted one of the stories. He was a recluse from Irish mythology, known for his continued reincarnations, one of which-- "...you want lox?” 

Hannibal’s smile grew palpable, eyebrows raising and chin tucking in acknowledgement of Will’s success.

“You are getting considerably better at this,” Hannibal remarked. Will felt silently pleased. “have you been studying?”

“For you? No, Hannibal,” Will laughed a little too quickly, Beverly looking smug in his peripheral-- _oh, well--great_. “I uh, just got lucky on this one.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, he--he’d just  _happened_  to spend a few hours nosing through the relation of the history of the foods and meats on their menu, poking through Wikipedia pages and if he'd taken notes, well--it's not like it could  _hurt_ to be more familiar with the menu. It wasn’t... _studying_ , really. Just research. “Tuan mac Cairill? It had to be salmon or stag, and uh,” he gestured at the menu, “we don’t serve that here. Are you going easy on me?” Will tore the receipt from the register and handed it to him, their eyes meeting and hands grazing as he hands it over, and Will rolling his eyes internally at the total  _corniness_  of the situation. 

“Thank you, Will.”   
“Anytime, Hannibal.”

He let Zeller take the register back a few customers later. Will wasn't necessarily _bad_  at register but to say he was _good_  wouldn't be quite accurate, either. Beverly bounced between bar and register, starting orders and nodding at Price and Will if the customers in line start to look too impatient behind the register. 

Beverly handed him a warm cup of chai tea in accompaniment with the bagel.

“What’s that?” Will asked. "He...didn’t order a drink.”

“It’s on you.” she winked, “Now hurry, Zeller is giving you a dirty look.”

"On the house,” Will said, when Hannibal approached for the food. He passed Hannibal the steaming tea and warm lox bagel over the serving counter.

Hannibal looked pleasantly surprised, thanking him for a second time before bidding him goodbye. It’s only as he was walking away that Will saw the slip of paper tucked purposefully into the coffee cup sleeve.  _Shit_.

He noticed it only a second before Hannibal did, his eyes shooting over to Beverly's, full of accusation while, outside the shop, Hannibal paused to read it. Beverly’s own gaze flickered back between the two of them, looking overly smug. Hannibal read the note, a look a of surprise on his face. He looked at Will over his shoulder, gave a small nod and then continued down the street.

“ _Beverly,_ ” Will’s voice was flat, chastising. Beverly looked unaffected. “ _What_ was _that_?” 

“Oh, did you not get a chance to read it?” Her reply was satisfied and sardonic, only mockingly surprised. “Guess you’ll have to wait for him to call to find out.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quite frankly, i have no idea what's happening, one second it's 10 at night, and I'm drinking wine and trying to pick a movie to watch. Next thing I know it's two am, the bottle's empty, Mr. Robot is on, and I've written another thousand words about this bagel au.

"Beverly, _c'mon_ ," Will said, exasperated. It was the end of their shift and he felt ready to collapse, head steadily pounding and his stomach rumbling pathetically.

The morning rush came in waves but lasted hours. He got his ten an hour late and it was too short, and he spent the next three hours glancing at the clock between rushes and waiting for his lunch. He spent the majority of that on the phone with his sister, whom he'd told could call without knowing how exhausted the day would leave him. Beverly had passed him on his break and asked him to pass on a hello and he had though the two didn't know each other too well. His sister had moved to the city in August for school and, let's be honest, to be closer. The walk to the subway seemed long and dreary though the cold weather was a gentle balm on his exhaustion. He made most of the walk in a daze, barely registering when he got down to the subway that he needed to dig his pass out of his bag. He threw his backpack down onto a seat with its back against the window and then dropped down next to hi, letting his head fall back against the glass; he felt more like a sack of bones than a person. Beverly threw herself into the seat next to him, just as tired, and rested her head on his shoulder.

"God, what a day." She groaned.

"No kidding. Zeller gave me shit all afternoon."

"It's 'cause you kicked him off of register. You could've just gone to the other register." She reminds him, but they're both only half invested in the conversation.

Will had almost forgotten about what'd happened that morning--Hannibal's good mood, it seemed, was not contagious, and he'd spent most of the morning distracted by cranky customers and an even crankier Zeller. In truth, he'd sent Zeller away because he didn't want him listening to the conversation. Zeller wasn't a bad guy though his foul mood that morning might indicate otherwise, but he was just as much a gossip as anyone at work, and he didn't really like Will.

"You never told me what that note said." He prompted, running a hand down his face. He thought he had ibuprofen in his backpack, if only he could muster the energy to get it out.

"No, I didn't."

"What did it say?"

"I'll tell you what the note said if you tell me why he keeps coming in to see you."

Will opened his eyes and lifted his head up off the glass. She straightened up and looked at him with a frank expression.

"That guy used to come in like, once in a blue moon 'til he met you. Then suddenly his riddles get harder and he's in twice a week? Either he likes you, or you know him, that's all I'm saying."

"You're exaggerating," he replied flatly, turning to dig through his bag.

"I am _not_ , and you know it! How do you even understand those references anyways? He threw one at me once; I stood there for five minutes and then excused myself to google it in the back. I come back and who's chatting him up at the register? You," she snorted. "I know you're smart, Will, but you two talk like you've known each other for a while. If you know him, then it's no big deal, he'll figure it out. If not, I'm doing you a favor. He _looked_ pleased enough when he read it, he must've been hoping you'd ask him out weeks ago." _  
_

_Shit, was he?_

Will sighed, swallowed a pill and then offered one to Beverly. He let his glasses slide lower on his nose so he wouldn't have to directly fake eye contact. Beverly was familiar with the move, but not put off by it, she made a mental note to ease off a bit.

"He's left little bits of origami for me," Will tried to admit casually. He hadn't thought much of it at the time--well, okay, that's a lie. It was weird. The first time, he'd done it used on a ten dollar bill, folded it into a koi fish and left it in the tip jar. He'd seen it, swimming around with change and crumpled bills, and not known who had left it until Sunday when tips were divided and send home and Jack Crawford, the owner of the bagel shop, had come in at the end of Will's shift to show it to him and ask him about it.

"How do you know it's for me?" Will had said, staring at the thing Jack's hands in confusion. It looked impossibly intricate, folded so it had scales, an elaborate tail so that the design on the bill gave it the appearance of eyes.

"It has your name on it," Jack replied, face set in a frown, wrinkles on his forehead prominent as he handed it to him. "Look, Will, I'm not judging--if a customer's gotta thing for you, or your girlfriend or your sister or whatever thought it would be cute to--I just wanted to make sure this isn't someone who's causing you any problems. It's a little odd, that's all."

 _Oh_ , Will had realized. _He's worried I've got a stalker._

"No--um, not that I know of?" he replied, taking the fish in his hands delicately, turning it over seeing his name written, unmistakably across the scales of its belly. "I don't have a girlfriend and my sister hasn't come to the shop this week. It's probably nothing."

Jack looked at him for a long moment, trying to read his expression.

"Alright, Will." He decided to let it go. "I know the regulars get a little familiar, and obviously, that's not _generally_ a bad thing. But if someone is causing you problems, I need you to tell me."

"Got it, Jack," He said, still looking at the fish in his hands. "Can I keep it?" he blurted. "As part of my tips for the week, of course."

"I don't see why not. Someone went to a lot of trouble for it. It's a nice gesture."

"Thanks, Jack," he'd been almost too nervous to pocket it, not wanting to risk letting it get bent or crushed in his pocket, so he'd held it loose in his hand the whole subway ride home.

He'd gotten a few since then, different bill amounts, sometimes ones, sometimes a five, folded into a dragonfly, a leaf, a moth. He couldn't actually say with one hundred percent accuracy that Hannibal had left them, but he didn't have any other customers he thought pretentious (or talented) enough to leave him origami tips.

Jack sorted them aside as a part of his tips when they came and didn't bring it up again.

"He did--that was _hi_ \--of _course_ it was him," she straightened up, at full attention, her eyebrows raised. "What do they say?"

"What?"

"What do they--Oh damnit, Will, have you ever bothered unfolding them?"

She'd caught him off guard. He hadn't, in fact, unfolded any of them--they were sitting on the little bookshelf in his bedroom, arranged neatly on the top shelf.

"I--they're _nice_ , okay? Who says he's written anything in them? They're intricate."

God, Will, you sure know how to pick 'em." She laughed and let her head fall back onto his shoulder.

"I didn't _pick_ him, Beverly. He's a customer." _A customer with a weirdly large amount of interest in me but a customer._ Will had a strange fondness for the guy. He was always dressed too nicely for the area--where was he _going_ , anyway? Did he get his rocks off by dressing up nice and strutting through Greenwich, or did he have an actual _reason_ for being here? He seemed proud, but not like an asshole. Talking to him, sans the exhaustion of deciphering his riddles (though deep down, Will was fond of those too)--at six in the morning, no less--was nice. His expressions were carefully measured, and Will had learned to read him in the small movements, the upturn of a lip just a millimeter, the gentle shift of deep tones to a note _just_ slightly lighter, the satisfaction settling in his eyes when Will solved the daily riddle. His laughs were genuine but controlled, and he seemed to get a quick grasp of Will's sense of humor, not batting an eye when Will accidently slipped out of Customer Service Mode™ and spoke with flat sarcasm. If anything, he seemed to appreciate those moments. He seemed like an interesting guy to get a beer with--though Will guessed it'd be easier to sit him down with an old scotch than a Dos Equis.

"You still have them right? We gotta go read them."

He let Beverley follow him up to his apartment when they got to Brooklyn, stairs creaking under them as they trekked up to the second floor.

"Got any beer?" She asked, tossing her bag down on the couch as they came in. The apartment was small, wood floors, front door leading into the a short hallways that let out into the living room, the deep blue couch and mismatched red arm chair he almost never sat in, the mahogany coffee table, old an worn, small old flatscreen tv. Left out of the hallway were three barstools and then and entrance to the kitchen on the left again. Past the kitchen and into another short hallway, his bedroom on the right, bathroom on the left.

"In the fridge," he said, nudging his shoes off by the door and heading to his bedroom to grab one of the bills. He paused in front of them, considering each for a moment. He settled on the butterfly, sitting between the moth and a crab. He brought it out to Beverly, and she traded him an uncapped beer. It was secured at the center with a zip tie that rose up to become antenna, the top of the wings thin and long, bottom wings short, fanned and broad. She asked for a knife to cut the zip tie after a moment of studying it. He handed it to her after only a beat of hesitation. It cut with a _snap_! and she unfolded it and spread it out flat on the counter.

"What the hell?" She said, leaning over it.

"What does it say?" Will asked.

"I have no idea. It's like it's Latin."

Will laughed and took a sip from his beer.

"Well, with _that_ attitude--"

"Look, Will, _it's in Latin_ ," she interrupted, sliding the bill to the end of the bar. Written in the center, where the twist tie once held the wings in shape, were the words:

> _nonne igitur sunt illa festiva, venusta? rogo te, ne nun contrabas, aut dimittas animum, neve te obrui sinas._

_"_ It's _in_ Latin _._ "

"That's what I said. Talk about pretentious. How the hell are we supposed to read this?" she asked, pulling out her phone and glancing at the message as she typed.

"I can text my sister. She's in her third year of Latin, she might have an idea." He takes a picture of the bill, attaching it to a text message.

"Do it. This wasn't any help." She showed him her phone, where she'd entered the text into Google Translate:

> 
>      So there are not that delightful , charming ? I beg you, do not nun and does not give up, the mind , and not to allow you to be overwhelmed.
>     

"Well, I'm sure he's having his fun. Testing my knowledge with a dead language."

"It _sounds_ like a compliment. I think." She said, her eyes suddenly lighting up like a hound on a fresh trail. "Do you think they're all in Latin? How many do you have?"

"Probably. Or some other dead language." He scoffed. "God knows, the moth could be in hieroglyphics. I want to figure this one out first; I don't want to tear them all up if I can't even figure out this one."

She gave him a sly grin and stood up to reach across the counter and tap her beer against his with a loud _clink!_

"I get it. Don't want to destroy your boyfriend's labors of love, huh?"

He shot her a look.

"Fine, fine. So, what's for dinner?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I crazy? What am I doing??? Thanks for reading, and thanks again to innuendium for getting me to do this (and continue it) in the first place.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will asks Hannibal about the note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, little-to-no wine was consumed while writing this chapter.

"'Are these not fine things?'" Will read, his eyebrows furrowing. "'I pray you let not your mind grow faint and feeble now.'" He quirked an eyebrow at Beverly, who ran a hand back through her hair and burst into a fit of laughter as Will put his phone back into his pocket. 

"Oh my god." She said, hand pressed to her stomach. She was slouched into the couch, foot propped on the coffee table and a beer in her hand. A half-eaten pizza was going cold on the coffee table and late night tv was droning on in the background. Will leaned up against the wall where the hall opened into the living room and sipped at the cheap whiskey in his hand. "He's complimenting himself, and then telling  _you_  not to get stupid? Wow, okay, maybe we  _should_  focus back on that girl who orders her bagels half-toasted every Thursday."

"She's too young. Besides, he's not--he's not laughing at me, it's a test. Like his orders. I only deserve the compliment if I can understand it."

Beverly tossed a faded black pillow at him and it connected with a soft _plop_ against his head. 

"Oh, I see. So this weird European guy has what--like  _ten years_  on you, leaves you weird ass notes in Latin to check you intelligence, and that's not a big deal? But perfectly normal half toasted bagel girl is what, 21? Four years and _that's_ too big of an age gap?"

"She's closer to my sister's age than mine. Set _them_ up, Beverly. Besides, I  _never_  said I was interested in this guy." His voice rose a few octaves. "Honestly, I wasn't even sure these were _from_ him until today. Can we--can we just drop it for now? It's already eleven, and we have work at six tomorrow." He reminded her.

She groaned, finishing her beer and standing up.

"Remind me again why we signed up for these stupid shifts?"

"We wanted to have a life," he scoffed.  _Fat chance of that, when it's between 'go out with your friends' and  'go to work and **don't** fall asleep at the register_. "You can crash on the couch if you want. You know where everything is." 

She flopped back onto the couch.

Beverly had slept over here a few times by now. It was an odd but fitting arrangement for them both; they both liked their privacy for the most part, and they both lived alone--only able to afford their apartments due to careful pre-college savings they'd put aside before bolting, Will from Louisiana and Beverly from Massachusetts. Beverly, at least, had the sense to finish her degree before running off. Will had spent his first six months working full-time and trying to finish school via online classes. He'd succeeded, but only just, and only for the sake of saying he'd done it. Beverly had the added benefit of inheriting her apartment from an aunt, and had refrained from changing the name on the lease to take advantage of rent control laws. Will had crashed at her apartment a couple times himself, but her apartment was always a mess and Will's was usually only half of one. 

Hannibal didn't come in the next morning, or for the next few days which was, quite frankly, a relief. Beverly had her fun, but if he was lucky she'd drop it and he'd return to being another of the patrons Beverly elbowed him about on occasion, and not one of her projects. He'd spent their subway ride to the shop thinking about the Latin inscribed on the bill, conflicted with feelings of both annoyance and embarrassment. Who the hell does stuff like that? To go to the trouble of folding such elaborate origami shapes--Hannibal was either very practiced or very dedicated. Or obsessed, but he chose not to dwell on the possibility. If his reading of Hannibal was correct, his standards were simply _that_ high. Something about Will had piqued his interest, and now he was probing to see what it was. He was, admittedly, a bit flattered, but he didn't plan on unfolding the rest of the origami; he was too fond of it.

Hannibal made his next appearance late Sunday morning. Business had slowed down and behind the bar Will and Price had lulled into a slow, productive pace, customers coming in every few minutes and giving them time to lean against counters, music flowing in softly from the speakers above their heads as their eyes drifted over customers. Will was removing a batch of bagels from the small stove behind the bar, his back turned to the register. 

" _Will!_ " Price shouted, startling Will and nearly causing him to drop the tray. He caught the right edge, saving the bagels from the floor--only one problem; he wasn't wearing a glove. It took him a moment to register the pain, but then it hit him and he haphazardly tossed the tray onto the counter, waving his burned hand around in pain. He turned to face Price, his hand throbbing.

"Oh sh--you okay, Will?" Price said, turning and catching sight of him waving his burned hand. 

"Well, my hand hurts like hell, but otherwise--" he started, voice filled with angry sarcasm. 

"Will?" 

Will's head jerked up when he recognized the voice, and he spotted Hannibal striding to the other side of the bar, his eyebrows wrinkled with worry. He put a hand on Will's shoulders and guided him to the sink, where he took his wrist and held his hand under a rush of cold water. 

"Y-you're, uh--customers aren't supposed to be back here." Will stuttered, the water already easing the throb in his hand.

"Safety comes before propriety, I'm afraid," Hannibal replied briskly. Standing this close, Will could see he was a few good inches taller than Will, and his face was turned to look at the sink. At this angle, the sharp curve of his cheekbones swooped across his face with more drama, and he could see the concern lightly crinkled at his eyes. Beverly was right; he must have been at least eight years older than Will. The age looked good on him, adding texture and not taking from his strong features. He was wearing leather gloves and his grip was cold on wrist, and he had a he had a deep, musky smell he caught despite the potent smell of coffee and baked bagels and sweets that overtook the shop at this distance. Hannibal caught his eye and released his gentle grip on Will's wrist, straightening up and stepping back a bit. 

"Will, are you okay?" Price asked, looking mortified.

"I'm fine, Price," Will said, wiggling numbing fingers under the water before turning to Hannibal. "Thanks, uh--I  _have_  burned my hand before, though, Hannibal."

"Pity, then, you did not always have a doctor there to see to you." Hannibal replied smoothly, peeling his gloves off and folding them delicately in his pocket. _Smooth_. They looked expensive--like they cost half of Will's rent. 

"Wait, you're a doctor?" Will had considered the thought, but settled on the likelihood that he was a college professor, to be so absorbed by abstract knowledge. So he knows all of this stuff just.... _because_. 

"Psychiatrist." Hannibal replied, surveying Will's hand under the cold water. He could see it; the high quality suits, early morning breakfasts, well-manicured nails and finley parted hair; a suit of things put together for and by the sake of building a professional trust, Hannibal in a fine leather arm chair making notes on his patients.

He realized Hannibal was waiting for a reply, studying him patiently, and Will felt quite abruptly like an old book fallen open on the table, yellowed pages open to the world.

"You're in later than usual. And on a Sunday." He said finally. 

"Yes, I don't normally see patients on Sundays, but there was a situation." 

"So, I uh, assume you came in to order something?" he said, an embarrassed smile sneaking onto his face. Hannibal smiled in return and--was that fondness sneaking into the expression? Softening the lines of his face?

"Indeed, today our paths crossed in search of the cure to life, or perhaps simply a cure to the ever vigilance of wakefulness."

"So..." Will paused, eyes running across the baking shelf. _Cure to life is death, cure to being awake is sleep, so--_ he turned to Price, quirking an eyebrow and raising his voice pointedly. "One poppy seed bagel coming up. And a chai tea." 

If it wasn't fondness before, it was now. Hannibal stepped closer again suddenly then and it took Will a moment to realize he was moving back to the sink. He ran his hands under the water and lathered them up with soap, taking Will's hand and gently lathering it up, as well.

"Uh--Hannibal?" he said, taken by surprise. Hannibal ran their hands under the water and then turned the sink off, grabbing a paper towel and gently drying his hand without a word. Will felt a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance twinkling through his nerves. 

"If you would sit down, I could bandage it properly." he said, turning Will's hand palm up. The skin was red and inflamed, blisters forming despite the gentle care administered, and with the loss of cold water, the burn was slowly returning. Hannibal nodded at a table and shifted a hand to his shoulder; next thing he knew, Will was being and sat down. Hannibal removed his coat and shoulder bag, hung them both on the back of his seat and sat down. Under his coat he wore a beige suit jacket over a grey sweater, the collar of a white dress shirt folded over the neck of the sweater. Hannibal reached smoothly into his bag and pulled out a small first aid kit in a fine, metal case. _Of course_. Hannibal unfolded it and pulled out a roll of gauze and medical tape and Will offered his hand awkwardly so that Hannibal could in gauze, his hands firm and delicate. Will's stomach felt uneasy; he kept his eyes on the edge of the table and took slow, measured breaths.

"I uh, opened the butterfly yesterday."

"Oh?" Hannibal asked calmly, after a short pause. He didn't look up from his work, though Will thought he was taking his time more than he needed to. He had to fight the fidgeting in his fingers. Hannibal used a small pair of scissors to cut the gauze and then secured it with a small strip of medical tape as Price brought the bagel and tea to them, still looking a bit embarrassed. "May we have a word?" Hannibal inquired, face tranquil. He stood up without waiting for a reply, and Price followed him to stand by the a few feet away. Will ground his teeth together. He didn't like people talking about him behind his back--and  _that_ \--like he wasn't even there.

They exchanged only a few words, and then Hannibal was back, replacing the small metal box in his bag and pulling out a glass Tupperware container, cold pack built into the bottom, and a wrapped plastic knife and spoon, unwrapping the bagel and cautiously sipping the tea. 

"I guess I should--" Will started to stand up.

"Taken care of." 

"What?" 

"He will cover the rest of your shift. He was confident your reliever could be persuaded to come in early. You were saying before?"

Wait, what? He'd talked him out of his last hour at work? 

"I..." He mumbled.  _What's this guy's game?_  He flexed his bandaged hand, the gauze wrapped firmly, and with care. "So uh, about the butterfly?" 

"Yes?" 

"It was in Latin."

"Yes."

"I didn't even realize you'd written in them until last night."

"I am more than confident in your ability to discern its meaning."

 "I didn't think there was anything written on it. I've got them all, I just didn't want to unfold them, it seemed wasteful. I still don't want to unfold the other ones, they're nice. My sister translated that one for me, though." He laughed. "Beverly thought it was hilarious, she said you were uh, complimenting yourself and then warning me not to get stupid." Hannibal opened the Tupperware container, a glass partition separating cream cheese, salmon, and caviar. 

"But you agreed. And you left me a note of your own, or I suspect, your friend left me a note." 

Will blanched, his hand shooting to his face and rubbing roughly over his stubble. He'd forgotten about the note--the discussion of Hannibal limited to mostly passing snide since his last visit. He sighed through his fingers, trying to stay calm. His hand smelled like coffee beans and soap. _It can't be that bad_. If Beverly was serious about setting them up, she wouldn't write anything  _too_ bad. But if she wasn't--

"And what did my _friend_  say, exactly?" he asked, dread squirming in his chest. He watched Hannibal spread the cream cheese onto each side of the bagel in a smooth, thick layer, delicately topping each half with cuts of salmon and a spoon of caviar. "We serve those toppings, you know." he added dryly.

"I'm quite aware. A good friend procured the ingredients for me. I would not waste them though your company is an equally exquisite gift." Hannibal replied honestly, replacing the lid on the Tupperware and returning it to his bag. "Would it worry you to know the note was a dictation of your feelings for me?" His expression was neutral, curious. Will felt like he was being tormented and he sighed, running his hand up under his glasses over his eyes, nudging them out of place, head bowing towards the table.

"That depends on what Beverly has decided it is you need to know about my feelings." 

"Simply that you enjoy my company, and it would be of our mutual benefit should we decide to spend time together, with your phone number."

"I'm not gay," he finally said, because he had to say it. It snuck out of his mouth, and ringing stupidly in his ears, shattering the glass of politeness between them. Hannibal sips his tea calmly, expression neutral, weighing the words. "I don't, uh--"

"Do you enjoy our conversations, Will?" Hannibal asked, leaning forward with his arms folded on the table. His voice was light, friendly if a bit challenging. His expression was open and patient.

"Well--you coming in and quizzing my knowledge of bagels?" He laughed, straightening up and running a hand back through his hair. "Yeah, actually, I do."  

"Then we can socialize like adults. God forbid we become friendly." 

Will paused, studying his face. There's no presumption there, only persistence. 

"Fair enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love writing Hannibal and Will as playing nurse to each other. It's just....oh man it's just the best okay.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say it's so much easier to write when you don't have to worry about Chapter titles or page length?  
> It's so soothing oh goodness. Sorry about the wait! I'd like to say thank you to Smirnoff and...what was that brandy? for help writing this chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who's left a comment or kudo

"I'd love to have you for dinner, Will."

"No," Will said, voice flat. "Too personal. We become friendly, _then_  we become friends."

"I know a number of fine cafés in the city, if you'd prefer, we are in New York City, our options are...hardly limited. It would seem convening here would provide the privacy from peering eyes you desire. What is your preference?" He asked. Will watched him break a small piece of the bagel off and bring it to his lips, closing his eyes as he chewed, face filled with reverence. Will watched him with a quirked eyebrow.

"I still can't believe you brought your own caviar. For a man who values propriety, that's _shockingly_ rude, Hannibal." Will accused, fingers flexing under the throb in his hand, his gaze pointed past Hannibal, at the entrance to the shop. He could feel Hannibal's gaze, kind but heavy on his face. 

"Perhaps you are right." Hannibal inclined his head just a fraction. "I did not anticipate eating outside of the office today, but I feel now I could hardly abandon you. Perhaps you will allow me to atone?" He ripped a small piece of the bagel off and offered it to him. Will looked at his hand, hovering halfway above the table, and thought about taking the piece with his mouth, pictured the expression shifting from surprise to delight, smug expression settling across his lips in a curve. He could take Hannibal's hand when he did it, holding it across the table, tracing the veins on the back of his hand. His wrists were hidden under the sleeves of the dress shirt that peeked out from under the sweater. He could push them back, trace the veins up his wris--

"Let's get a beer, Hannibal." Will said instead, plucking the bagel out of his hand and settling back in the chair with a sigh. He closed his eyes as the flavor ran over his tongue, the satisfying _crunch_ of of the bread between his incisors, the sturgeon eggs popping, salty, between molars, the salmon buttery and fresh, taste accented by the chops of vegetable in the cream cheese. His head tilted back a fraction, a quiet moan slipping from his mouth. "It's delicious." he admitted.

Hannibal watched him, visible pleasure sparked in his eyes. 

"Next time I will be sure to bring enough for two," He said, watching Will recompose himself. Hannibal sipped his chai tea and then nodded in acquiescence, softened to Will's offer by his display. "You may choose the venue, then." 

"No--don't bring me food," Will replied, brushing crumbs off his hands. "Everyone at the store already thinks something is up and I'd rather not be this week's gossip. Ease up on the origami too--I appreciate it, Hannibal, but the tips are  _too_ generous."

"Of course," Hannibal said reluctantly. Will could see he didn't like it; these were gifts, and Will was turning them away, saying he didn't want them.

"I appreciate them, Hannibal," he said, trying to compensate, glasses sliding down his nose so he could feign eye contact. "but I don't want to give you the wrong idea." 

Hannibal wanted to reach across the table and push his glasses back up his nose, but he restrained himself. Not yet, at least. So Hannibal nodded again, not voicing a complaint, and reached into his jacket pocket to pull out his business card and a pen. He wrote his cell phone number on the card, the ball-point pen scratching against the embossed paper. Will took it, glancing at it and pocketing it with approval. 

"Walk me out?" Will asked, standing up, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. Hannibal regarded him and nodded, standing and pulling his coat on before delicately positioning his shoulder bag across his chest. "I have to grab some stuff from the back," he jerked his head in the direction of the door behind the counter.

The low music seemed far away in Will's ears as he went behind the bar, Price with his back turned as he washed a blender in the sink, through the door that led to the back kitchen and stock room, his small backpack and crumpled jacket on top of boxes filled with Christmas directions, nearly stacked to the left of the entrance. The stock room was where you went when you needed a break during your shift even though you'd already had one; where you could bitch about the boss or take a swig of whiskey from the flask tucked into your bag on a bad day, where you laughed about the mistakes you made on the weekend or complaints from customers. He slung his bag on his shoulder and sighed. Hannibal would likely call on him soon if he didn't call on the other man first. And he wouldn't, not for lack of interest, but lack of desire to make a good thing turn rotten. Hannibal was undoubtedly one of the more interesting parts of his job, and Will would rather work through the awkwardness of never calling, of turning him down and giving good excuses, and then bad ones, than lose the spice of a challenge in the morning, the spark of pride earned from a successful answer. 

Will returned to the café, phone in hand and mindset checked. Hannibal stood by their table, looking pressed and put together, his hand resting on the top of the chair. He inclined his head in a small smile as Will shuffled over.

"Although I appreciate the commodity of it, I rarely use public transportation. My car is parked outside my office just a short walk from here, perhaps considering the weather, you will allow me to extend the courtesy of offering you a to give you a ride home?" Hannibal inquired politely. It was loaded with a lack of presumption that surprised Will; he was treading carefully, seeing the skittishness in Will's movements.

"You can offer." Will replied, starting towards the door, Hannibal close at his side. "I'll refuse. My apartment is at least a forty minute drive at this time of day-"

"Not a problem. The weather is likely to turn poor, Will. Allow me this indulgence."  He reached the door before Will and held it open. The air blasted him, wind slamming into him like a wall made of ice, the warmth of the bagel shop dissolving as he walked out into the street, the smell of the city replacing the scent of fresh bread and coffee as Hannibal paused next to him. Heavy grey clouds were pulling in over the city, the wind whipping across their faces like sheets of ice. Will looked at his phone, eyes squinting at the screen; 34 degrees Fahrenheit--cold enough to make the wind burn against his cheeks and straight through his thin, but not enough to freeze the rain. He also had a text from Beverly, but he could read that later, when his fingers weren't at risk of going numb.

"Okay." Will sighed, burying his hands back into the jacket. It would be cold down in the subway, and though it would be a relief from the wind, he knew it'd be warmer in Hannibal's car. "I live in Brooklyn," he added, another warning, but Hannibal only nodded, clearly pleased he'd accepted the offer.

"Allow me to lead the way."  

Hannibal's car was nicer than Will had expected. It was a sleek, spotless black Bentley, the interior smelling of leather and pine. Will slid into the passenger seat and immediately felt out of place, and he squirmed in the seat, trying to get comfortable as the cold leached from the leather through Will's pants. The window was fogged, but began to clear as the car began to warm up. Were the seats heated? 

Will gave Hannibal his address and as he drove, it began to rain and Will was thankful for the shelter in the car, smooth voice of the GPS occasionally interrupting the stream of Chopin through the speakers. It wasn't long into the day, though looking at the clock on the dashboard he realized he'd spent more time at the café after the burn than he'd realized. He read the text from Beverly--a mildly concerned inquiry about his leaving work early, and he typed back; _a couple m_ _inor burns, Price overreacted, got sent home. Thanks for covering_. and sighed at his bandaged hand.

"So, why _does_ a psychiatrist carry around a first aid kit?" Will asked, his head leaning against the glass window. Hannibal glanced at him in his peripheral and felt slightly amused - he'd settled rather quickly, despite his initial show of discomfort. He huddled back close to the warmth of the heated seat, but pressed his forehead against the cold window, rain hitting the glass and splattering pleasantly against his ear, his breath ghosting a fog. Sounds of the city were undercurrent to the melodies of Chopin, stubborn in the foreground. Traffic was a bit slow, but not terrible for this part of the city, and there was less honking and fuss in Greenwich than the heart of the city.

"One finds it is always better to be over-prepared when working in the company of other people. Had you suffered a the urge to sneeze, or a sudden headache, I would have been equally prepared to aid you. Where you provide sustenance, comfort, and internet access, I strive to provide ease; a repose for my patients so that they might look to the source of their burden."

Will watched the streets glide by for another few minutes, heart slowing to accommodate the gentle tune of Préludes, Op. 28 No. 4 in E minor's smooth entrance through the speakers as the song began, and Will furrowed his eyebrows as he listened to it. It was a short composition, only about two minutes, beginning with slow, low notes backdropping shy, higher ones that built, very slowly, and then smoothed out again, only to grow stronger, more confident, inspiring the lower notes, until they grew powerful, basking for a moment, and then dropping back, lower and slow, not shy but tired, a respite and then an end in the lower notes. 

 "It's beautiful," Will breathed, breaths moving across the glass. "I can see why you'd play it for your patients."

"Yes," Hannibal replied in mirrored softness. "It is." 

"Do you? Play it for your patients?" Will asked, shifting to look at him, the right side of his face a bit pale for being pressed to the cold. He watched drops of water  _splat_ against the windshield and run down the glass, letting his mind ease, his anxiety sleeping in his chest, or else gone altogether for the moment. Hannibal's face was serene, the shadow of the rain thrown on him like a cartoon drawing. His features were sharp, the edge of his cheekbone in its gentle arc across his profile, the way it arched up and created a smoother, deeper hollow for his cheeks and his eyes. He had a straight nose and a firm, but not protruding, brow, and his chin jutted out handsomely, lips forever appearing pursed. The wind had strayed his hair a only slightly out of place, draping over his forehead where it had before been combed to the side. He couldn't see himself, but if he could, he'd imagine his own mop of hair would be a whipped mess. 

Hannibal felt the gaze, saw it in his peripheral and straightened his posture, if only slightly. The closer they got to Brooklyn, the darker the clouds grew, the harder the rain. Getting to his stop in Brooklyn would've been fine, rain in the subway trains would hardly be an issue. But getting to the apartment would've been a nightmare; it was five blocks away; not far in good weather, but a mile in this, and they were both glad Will had agreed to the ride. 

"Not generally, no. I've been known to play Nocturne two in E Flat, however, among other therapy classics, but these particular compositions have a more personal ring, and so I listen to them only in non-professional company, so as to keep them personal. This CD is mostly Chopin, but Leonard Bernstein is also a favorite."

"He's buried in Green-Wood - have you been? Paid your respects?" Will asked curiously. Green-Wood was a large cemetery, just under five hundred acres and located in King's County. Not a short drive, but not a terribly long one, either, to pay respects to a person to whom someone held in as much reverence as Hannibal seemed to hold Bernstein. It was full of graves as far as the eye could see, a map at the entrance past the to keep one from getting lost in the sea of graves, and if one walked long enough, they were likely to encounter glacial ponds among the valleys and steep hills that held the tombs, some great mausoleums and others old, modest stones. There were statues in clearings in the cemetery, and a beautiful, if small church set in the same style as the entrance; a red stone gothic revival giving the appearance of age greater than the two century mark it was climbing towards. 

"I paid my respects not long after I first arrived in the city," Hannibal replied. "It's a beautiful grave, even in it's simplicity." His voice was low and fond. Will too, had visited the grave once upon a time, with his sister. The corpse of a squirrel had lain not five feet from it, looking horribly ravaged. She had lost her lunch, and he had lost his heart; they had not been back since. Will thought it best not to mention this.

"What did it look like, the day you went?"

Hannibal's brow furrowed slightly as he brought the memory to the forefront of his mind, hands smoothly turning the steering wheel into a left turn.  

"It was late fall. The trees in the cemetery were mostly bare and the ground was littered with leaves. It was cloudy, not unlike now, though blissfully absent of rain. I found myself lost among the tombstones, in search for this one among many, and though I might have found my way rather easily, I thought it better to wander. One knows not what adventure can offer the open mind, after all." His eyes gleamed and his face held an expression of faraway fondness. "I found the grave when it was time for me to find it. The sun was low and seemed to shine through the bushes erected around the area, above his inscribed bench and directly upon the simple, smooth nameplates of his own and his wife's. It was lovely, I regret that I have not returned since." 

Will was silent. He could see the image perfectly in his mind; the cemetery quiet, crows singing harshly in the distance, the sun's light illuminating the tombs as it bid the day farewell, orange leaves nestled near the stones resting on the grave, Hannibal young and sharp-minded, settling in this new country, paying his respects to the past as he took in the present. Maybe he had traveled here for the sake of his studies, or because the small suburb in which he'd grown up had grown too banal, and it was time, now, to stretch to the world. Or perhaps he had simply been visiting. But he could see it, young Hannibal in a navy blue windbreaker, or a too-large sweater, less together and experienced than now, taking in the sight as if heaven sent to him, the sun sneaking through and lighting not just the nameplates nestled in the grass but the features of Hannibal's face. He could see himself; finding Hannibal there, his sister on his arm, pausing to stare at the man encapsulated at the sight, Will and his sister encapsulated by the man. Approaching him, and then the three of them, standing together in silence, the sun casting orange-yellow light and pulling blue shadows on all of them, the tears dried on his sister's face not unlike the shadows of rain on Hannibal's now. When they turned to look at each other, their eyes drifting to each others', they would be silent, and his sister would smile, and he'd smile, and Hannibal's eyes would shine the way they were shining now. 

Will liked the false memory more than the truth. 

"We're here." Will realized, slowly snapping back to himself, blinking away the daydream. It was pouring so hard he could barely tell though Hannibal had pulled into a spot not far from the building and parked. "Thanks," he said, his voice still far away, unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching for the door handle.

"Will - " Hannibal protested, reaching across him and pulling the door closed before it could properly open. "You'll be soaked, Will. I have an umbrella in the backseat." 

Will paused, Hannibal leaning across him, hand over his on the door handle, their faces too close, eyes meeting. 

"W-walk me up?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up! Finals are next week so school is on real crunch time. I have most of this week off so hopefully I'll get another chapter or two out before tuesday ;)  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've got you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before tuesday...mostly, as promised! I got the chance to mention another Hannibal character and I totally jumped at it, tbh.  
> I did a quick read-through for errors and little edits but I just really, really wanted to get the chapter out so if I made any mistakes please let me know so I can get them when I go back to edit again!!

"Of course," Hannibal agreed, shifting back into his seat and stretching to the back seat for his umbrella. It was long, black, with a wooden handle that curved like an upside down question mark, and he had to maneuver it carefully to the front seat to avoid poking Will with the tip. "One moment." 

The sound of the rain was deafening outside the car as Hannibal climbed out, umbrella first, and moved around to the passenger side. Will took a deep breath, trying to mentally prepare himself for the shock of cold that came when the door opened to no avail; the blast of chill wind seemed to sweep right under his jacket and pants, laying like a frost blanket over his skin and leaving him shivering. Hannibal huddled at his side under the umbrella, and Will found himself pressing closer than was needed in a desperate attempt to leach some of the warmth from the man next to him. Will pointed to his building: old red brick between two greys with a tall, worn set of stairs, and then tucked his hands away safe in his pockets. They glanced about the street for cars and then crossed, Hannibal leading in a quick stride. Will began to scramble for his keys at the foot of the stairs to his apartment building, digging hurriedly through the compartments of his backpack. Without any eyes on where he was going, his foot missed the top step. 

Quick as lightning Hannibal dropped the umbrella and grabbed him, his left arm wrapping around Will's waist under his left arm and wedging him between the grip and his side before Will's knees could slam against the top cement stair, grunting with effort. Will hung there, held up exclusively by this grip, his feet at a loss for purchase underneath him for a beat before he scrambled up, using Hannibal's firm hold and the railing to his left to get back up, rain pelting down on them both like an ice bath. Will cursed under his breath, but the words were lost in the downpour. 

"I've got you." Hannibal reassured him as he struggled back to his feet, his voice breathy with effort as water soaked through their clothes and Will straightened up, Hannibal's grip letting up. Will pulled his glasses off, too wet to be useful, as Hannibal picked the umbrella up and shielded them from the onslaught of freezing rain as though their clothes weren't already doused. Will found his keys at the bottom of his backpack, hands shaking with cold as he found the right one and opened the door, stepping aside for Hannibal to enter. 

His shoes made a  _splosh_ sound against the steps as he led the way to his apartment, now murmuring embarrassed apologies. The steps were wooden and slippery under their shoes and he held onto the railing on the way up, god _forbid_ he give himself another chance to prove his incompetence by slipping a second time. There was no discussion about whether or not Hannibal was coming up to his apartment with him, he simply was, and how could he not, dripping and cold as he now was? _Great job, Will. A guy tells you he wants to be your friend, drives you home, you ruin his clothes._

He lived on the second floor, a ratty black doormat the only place marker outside the apartment. He had to fight the urge to make a bad joke about it, feeling the awkward twitching in his mouth as he swallowed the urge to overcompensate. He unlocked the door and took off his jacket - better suited for the sink than a hanger at this point, and hung it on the back of the door. Hannibal followed him in and did the same as Will leaned against the wall to tug his shoes off, his feet clammy and numb underneath them. Hannibal kneeled by the closed door, meticulously unlacing his own. Will balled his socks up and led the way in, pausing at the thermostat to rack the temperature up, a knot of anxiety in his stomach. Of course, he'd tripped up the stairs, of  _course_ , he'd burnt his hand, of  _course,_ he'd fallen and gotten them both soaked, and, of course, he hadn't straightened up his apartment the night before - it was as if the universe was making a point of ostracizing his inadequacies in front of a man who clearly suffered no such shortcomings. And now, standing in his living room catching his death, with Hannibal - a fitting end.

"This way," he said, walking straight back to his bedroom, trying to stay casual. He stopped at the door in the hall, glancing back and realizing Hannibal hadn't followed past the entrance to the living room. "What are you doing?" Will laughed awkwardly, forgetting for a moment that he'd just invited a stranger into his bedroom.

"I didn't want to get any more of your floor wet than necessary." Hannibal replied apologetically, rainwater puddling at his fee; the rain and wind had ruined his hair, his coat had protected his sweater from getting too wet, even if it hadn't protected the legs of his pants or his shoes. Will went into the bathroom and came back with two towels, handing him one and gesturing for him to follow, throwing the other over his shoulders. Hannibal thanked him and took the towel, following Will a bit reluctantly when he nodded again towards the hallway.

"Don't worry. It's not like I'm exactly dry. I have some clothes you can change into though," He said, leading back to the bedroom. That was what people did, right? Offer a change of clothes or else let him dry out here, if not both? Will didn't have strange company often. He shuffled into the bedroom, Hannibal pausing politely at the door as his eyes took in the space. It was a modest room, an old mahogany desk against the far corner, dresser to the right, and a small bookshelf to your immediate left against the wall. The sheets on the bed, settled against the center of the right wall were sky blue and a crumpled mess without a comforter. There were small tools set up on the desk; evidence of WIll's talent for crafting fishing lures, and a laundry hamper sat half full near the closet in the back left corner. Will went to the dresser and started to rummage for clothes. "I can't send you back out there like  _that_. I can grab you some sweats, do you want a shirt?" 

"I think what I have will suffice." He said, gaze distracted by the bookshelf. Sitting on the top shelf in front of a well-used collection of Vonnegut were the origami bill's he'd left Will--the koi fish, the dragonfly, the hastily folded suit, and at the end, the unfolded butterfly, wrinkled by its manipulation. 

"I had wondered what you'd done to the rest." Hannibal admitted, sentiment shining faintly in his eyes.

"Yeah, I mean, I was hardly going to throw them away," Will replied easily, taken aback by the expression on Hannibal's face. "Do they all have stuff written in them?"

"You'll have to devise that yourself, I'm afraid," Hannibal replied charmingly, his gaze still on the shelf, though whether it was fixed on the origami or skimming the books behind them Will didn't know. 

"You  _want_ me to unfold them? That sounds like such a waste." Will replied honestly. If Hannibal wasn't going to tell him, he'd have to be content not knowing. They were too rare a gift to disarm in such a way. 

"I imbibed them with each with a deeper meaning that does not necessarily need to be appreciated through their dismemberment, you may enjoy it as they are. What you do is your choice, Will."

Hannibal changed in the bathroom first, Will awkwardly shuffling around his apartment before deciding to brew coffee, busying himself over a french press in the kitchen, pulling the unused thing out of it's red, rectangular box, a piece of Christmas paper still stuck with tape on the side. He'd gotten it from a work friend during Secret Santa at Christmas, a younger woman who'd been studying at a culinary school in the city. She was a quiet woman though shy was the wrong word; she had more so the attitude of a person acutely aware of things going on around her and it was clear she made an active choice of observation over interaction. She had a good sense of humor when she felt like it, though, and she and Beverly had gotten on swimmingly well, though and working shifts with them together, or the three of them with Price was somewhere between hilarious and horrible. Jack had been particularly fond of her, and she'd earned his respect quickly from what Will could tell--she'd only been working there a few months longer than him when she started. She had a particular attention to detail and wealth of eagerness that made her well-suited for assistant manager, and she'd been a grade-A boss until she'd had to return home suddenly, back to her hometown in North Carolina for a family emergency. The tag was still tucked into the box, and he returned it back to the cabinet where he'd kept the french press to hide the evidence of its lack of use. It tag was white, with a red shining border and green embossed writing, tucked inside the top of the box: 

> _To: Will Graham  
>  _
> 
> _From: Miriam Lass --please stop drinking such crappy coffee at home. _

 It had been a small inside joke between the three of them that Will drank almost exclusively instant coffee at home, opting only occasionally for even his Keurig. He'd laughed good-naturedly at the jab but never taken the advice. Well. Until now. He grabbed the ground coffee beans he'd stored away in the freezer and filled a kettle to boil on the stove. The kettle was a better used and more-loved thing than the french press as he and his sister had grown up fairly partial to tea, to mention had always been particularly fond of tea. It was, for him, a healthy alternative to drinking alone, and it was often he found himself sitting, blanket curled around his shoulders with spicy chai tea in one hand and a book in the other, or else his phone, or a remote, or his laptop under his fingers.

Hannibal returned as Will lit the stove, clad in a fresh pair of Will's socks and sweatpants and his own sweater, dress shirt and pants left hanging on the back of the bathroom door. He noted the kettle and french press with an expression of approval and relief.

Will waited, still freezing, for the kettle to whistle, fingers tapping on the outside of his left thigh in mild anxiety. It felt rude to leave Hannibal to his own devices without at least setting the coffee to brew. He needed to stand under hot water to get his blood flowing again, the heater slow to function.

"Well, uh, if you were wanting to rescind the invitation for friendship now, I'd understand," Will said, finally letting his nervous laugh break the silence. He looked at the ground as he said it, but his eyes rose to scan the expression on Hannibal's face as he finished.

"Because of your slip? Every venture has his perils, especially the pursuit of friendship," Hannibal replied, regarding him with curiosity. "I assure you there's no need to be embarrassed, it was a slip, a simple mistake, and by no means made to discourage me. Tell me, though, Will, do you often meet new people or is friendship a bit more difficult for you?"

"Are you asking me if I'm a loner?" Will asked, raising an eyebrow. _That's an interesting place to start._  

"In a word."

Will deigned not to answer.

When the kettle finally began to whistle, it's yell ballooning loud and strong to fill the room, Will was beyond relieved; he felt as though any moment he would become so tense from the cold that he might freeze up so intently he'd be stuck in place. He poured the boiling water into the french press on the ground coffee beans and replaced the lid. 

"I'll be right back - make yourself comfortable." Will said, finally hurrying off to the bathroom, scooping up his own change of clothes on the way. He tore his shirt off before he'd even closed the door, hurriedly fumbling at the shower controls from the other side of the curtain. He wiggled out of the rest of his damp clothes, shuddering before he clambered in, better to let his body acclimate to warm water than to shock it with scalding heat. He stayed in only long enough to wash the chill out of his bones keeping his bandaged hand out of the water; the cold outside had served at first to ease the pain and then numb it completely, and he wasn't eager for the return of the gentle throbbing.

Steam spilled out into the hall when he opened the bathroom door, the apartment's temperature more accommodating than when he'd entered. He returned to the kitchen, surprised to find the coffee pressed and poured; Hannibal leaning nonchalantly against the counter, crimson mug in hand, one of Will's mugs - deep, midnight blue constellation mug sitting, steaming on the counter in wait for Will. 

"I hope you don't mind, I took the liberty," Hannibal said, tipping his mug politely. Will picked up the blue mug, warm like flesh in his undamaged hand, eyes skimming between the stars connecting Orion, the fierce son of Euryale and Poseidon on its surface, and wondered if Hannibal had chosen this mug with intent for another conversation about mythology. The coffee had been gently sweetened, cream and sugar added with a prudent hand. He brought the mug to his lips, warmth spreading from his bottom lip across his tongue, a surprising spice flavor swimming across his tongue. 

"Is that...cardamom?" Will asked, his voice soft. A small smile played on his lips. "I thought _I_ was the coffee connoisseur, Hannibal. Do I even _have_ cardamom?" 

"You do." Hannibal replied, inclining his head with appreciation. "Not to imply the press was insufficient, I rummaged through your spices and was quite pleased when I came upon crushed cardamom, bottled near the thyme on the second shelf. I wondered if you'd recognize the taste." he admitted, taking another sip of his own drink.

Another test, then, and he'd passed. Did Hannibal put all new acquaintances to such examinations? It didn't seem unlikely; the man seemed so put together in word and in dress, it was fitting he had a particular palette when it came to friendship as well - though it was difficult to say if _friendship_ was all Hannibal had been pondering. Well, Hannibal could have his comments about Will being a loner, but Hannibal was pretentious and that was it's own vice.

"You're _testing_ my taste buds with spices from my cabinet? Or is there a mythical significance to cardamom buried in the choice?" Will paused, furrowing his eyebrows, trying to remember as he took another sip. "I, uh, didn't study for this one. So I'll do my best," he offered a small laugh, and Hannibal waited with an ardent expression. "It was...something about paying respects? Hindu people used it to pay respects to recently lost loved ones and it was used as magical protection...help with nerves, making decisions and..." he almost didn't say it. "An aphrodisiac." He studied Hannibal's face through his eyelashes. Hannibal's face was a mask, not denying or accepting the accusation, only hearing the words and taking them in stride. 

"It was also used for a medicinal purposes," Hannibal said with approval. Always testing, always approving, Will fought the urge to dryly compare him to a college professor he'd had back in Louisiana, but he smirked to himself behind his coffee all the same. It was... _odd_ to see Hannibal in this state, hair damp and combed back with nothing but fingers, Will's black sweats tied at the waist but clinging a little to his thighs, only scraping the ground where they normally pooled an inch or two too long at Will's feet, Will's grey socks poking out under them. The grey sweater transformed from business wear to classy casual without the dress shirt tucked underneath, Hannibal's collar bones peaking out. It was like seeing a celebrity in gym clothes in a trashy magazine for the first time, the obvious epiphany and cascading thoughts that come from acknowledging that a person exists outside of your interaction with them. Though Hannibal didn't strike Will as the kind of man to frequently lounge around in sweats.

Was Hannibal experiencing the same thing with him? Seeing him not only in attire not fit for work but equally dripping and in his apartment, an intimate space he didn't lightly open to strangers now that it was empty of canine companions. Keeping dogs in the city was hard, though, and a strain on him for rent, so he rescued dogs when he could, but not as often as he'd liked to, and only temporarily until he could find them a stable home. Dogs provided welcome company and protection, and without them, he felt alone and vulnerable, especially around strangers. It was nice, then, to have someone like Beverly around to sleep on the couch after late nights, not only for the sake of her company but for his own sanity. 

Hannibal took his mug when he finished and went to the sink to wash them, surprising Will, who dried the mugs when he was done. Will leaned back against the counter and opened his mouth to voice the question about the mug when Hannibal took his hand, the question of intention lost as Hannibal gingerly peeled the gauze free to glance at the burn. His hand was an angry, puffy red, blisters fully raised on the pads of his fingers and in a thick line across his hand, but it wasn't serious. He wrapped the burn up again, his movements smooth and confident, not dropping the hand when the dressing was readjusted, instead rubbing his thumb across his knuckles over the gauze.

Will watched his face, Hannibal's eyes downcast at their hands allowing him the freedom to explore his expression without feigning eye contact. His features were so unique, so fascinatingly uncommon; he wondered how they'd look would look translated into bronze or marble, his features transcribed reimagined in an artistic mold, the sharp brutality of bronze, the opulence of white marble, eyes sculpted fine but ultimately empty. He pictured an expression of determined nobility sculpted onto the face, with eyebrows wrinkled and mouth set in a hard, determined line or else a twisted scowl, muscles tensed in the posture of a Greek warrior in the midst of battle, or on the precipice of war, or else in an oil painting of a more modern fashion, classic and refined in the style of Alexandre Cabanel. His eyes, a deep brown that seemed to pool in a dark crimson around the pupil alight in the image, lips sharp and pouting as they did. He wondered absently what it would be like to run his fingers along the curves of his face and he didn't flinch when Hannibal's hand slid up his arm, up into his hair and to tilt his head back gently. He envied the poised way in which he did it, knowing his own touch would've been more of a fumble. The feeling of Hannibal's thumb across his cheekbone seemed completely natural and unquestionable, and when the other man seemed to lean in, their eyes meeting in a moment of ease, Will relaxed and let his eyes fluttered closed. Hannibal's hand cupped his face, lips brushing over his a soft, feathery warmth against his, gentle and -

A loud knock against the front door startled them, Hannibal straightening up and turning away, Will's heart jumping nearly out of his chest as he was brought abruptly back to himself. 

_Well. This was going to be difficult to explain to himself later._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! It's finals week now until thursday, so while I've already started writing six I'm not sure when it'll get out - but I'd expect sometime around next tuesday at the latest.  
> you can find me on tumblr [here](http://ourdeathswillstopnothing.tumblr.com) if it suits your fancy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for waiting patiently, I'm sorry it's a little late. I posted it at like, 3am yesterday morning (to those of you subscribed who got emails, only to check in and find no new chapter - I'm so so _sorry_!), I'll explain in the end notes!  
>  I hope you all enjoy the chapter!

Will let out a shaky breath and slid past Hannibal out of the kitchen. His fingers twitched by his side and he brought his hand to his face, dragging it along his chin, over his lips.He took a moment to collect himself, his breath coming out in shudders and hands shaking like he'd been caught shoplifting. _Come on, Will. Answer the door, get this over with._  He didn't stop to check the peephole in the door, trembling fingers pulling it open. 

"Hey," his sister chirped. Her voice felt like a slap and the goofy grin on her face was like a job offer at the wrong time; the assurance of something good exactly when you  _didn't_ need it. 

He had expected a stranger, or else a neighbor. A neighbor coming to borrow a blender, or a child with girl scout cookies - was it that time of year? - would've been easy to deal with. A stranger to break the tension of the moment in the kitchen and flush Will out of the twilight zone, however entranced he'd been there. Someone who knocked and was dismissed, leaving him clear headed and in possession of his faculties. He'd be able to deal with Hannibal in the kitchen, tell him to leave - or, maybe, kiss him again. Allow himself be kissed. But his sister, her raincoat dripping over her arm and umbrella clutched in her hand, like they'd been planning to get dinner. Had they made dinner plans? What was the date?

His hand twitched and he contemplated, for a split second, slamming the door, and then laughed if off, letting some of the tension out of his body, but she'd already seen the surprise in his face. "Hey Will, are you okay?" She had the same nervous laugh as him, with the exception of being younger and more charming.

He tried to conquer the panic seizing through his limbs. No reason to overthink the situation, she'd never met Hannibal, had no reason to be suspicious. 

"I - uh - did we make plans for today?" he stuttered. Was he blushing? God forbid, she was going to see right through him. 

"No - I just - midterms are finished up so I wanted to see you, now that I'm not pouring over a textbook or writing essays twenty-four seven. I called your apartment - you didn't answer, so I called the shop but they said you'd just left." She was still treading gently, but in a moment she'd either get self-conscious or suspicious. She crossed her arms and looked at the floor- there it was. "I texted you before I headed over. Is it, uh, a bad time?"

Her eyes were robin's egg blue, wide they way they got when she was getting upset. She sucked her lips back between her teeth and shifted to one leg. Self-conscious, then. His heart leaped between guilt and abject horror, and he took a moment to remind himself that. He'd have to introduce them now, there was no way around it.

"No - uh, sorry," he smudged his hand across his jaw and gave her an apologetic smile, meeting her eyes. "I'm not alone - c'mon inside. A friend drove me home from work," he took a deep breath, gathering himself together. He stepped out of the frame to let her in, trying to keep images of Hannibal, staring deep into his eyes, out of his mind, though they came in flashes. He shook his head, trying to acclimate.

She hung her coat and umbrella behind the door and then hugged him, and he wrapped his arms around her, clumsy smiling into each other's shoulders. He hadn't been able to see her since a couple weeks before mid-terms had started - almost a month. Not too long in the grand scheme of things, but now it felt like longer. With occasional phone calls and check-in texts, he'd forgotten how much he really missed her. 

When she pulled away, her face was alight and mirth had returned to her expression; a grin that would've been Cheshire if not for the geniality in her eyes. 

"So, who's the friend? Have I heard of him?" her voice was light and curious. She generally liked meeting Will's friends - it gave her a better sense of what his life was like, and meant he wasn't spending all of his time alone.

"No. He's a regular at the shop, uh -" he bandaged up hand hand after I burned it because I'm the  _only_ person at work who understands his orders, drove me home after getting me out of my shift early, walked me to the apartment, and then had to change into my clothes because  _I_ got him drenched in the rain. Then he tried to kiss me. "Did anyone at the store mention this-" he raised his left hand, showing her the wrappings. "when you called?"

"Yeah. Is it bad?" her eyebrows knit in concern; the bandages left absence where the wounds were, and gave people too much room to imagine them as worse than they really were.

"Grabbed a hot pan. Next thing I know I've got the rest of my shift off and Hannibal's driving me home." he shrugged, the omissions coming easier than he'd expected. 

"Gonna introduce me?" 

He led her inside, nerves rustling in his chest as she trailed after him. Hannibal was at the counter in front of the bar, stirring a new cup of coffee in a teal mug, the french press sitting empty by the sink. He regarded Will as he re-entered with a measured expression, eyes shifting behind him as his sister followed him in. 

Will readied himself as she trailed in behind him, her smile becoming more guarded but not disappearing. He watched them taking each other in, Hannibal in Will's sweats - could she tell they were Will's?, hair dripping and stirring coffee his kitchen, the atmosphere of regality he carried into the shop everyday held, even now. Abigail's expression showed her curiosity but only  _just_ , and she knew better than to comment on it.

Hannibal's eyes surveyed his sister. Dark hair, the color of coffee beans, parted off-center the front section tucked behind her ear and the rest in mussed waves over her shoulders, displaced by the weather. She was wearing a blue sweater and jeans, an emerald green scarf tucked around her neck, school bag still over her shoulder. A girl in her early twenties, showing up unexpectedly at Will's apartment in the middle of the afternoon. Will didn't blame him for the assumption; the resemblance was hard to spot.

They reminded him of two birds meeting a new species for the first time at a familiar tree. Reassessing, curious, having discovered a new fraction of the universe. 

"Hannibal, this is my sister," Will introduced. She went around the counter and he ceased his coffee preparation, straightening and offering his hand. "Abigail, this is Hannibal." 

"Abigail," She smiled, shaking his hand, a shade of diffidence in her movements. 

"Pleasure to meet you," the smile he offered her was small, but sincere, as they shook hands, and warmth radiated off of him like Will hadn't seen before. He could see Hannibal's appraisal shifting at hearing her called  _sister_ , taking note and recategorizing her in his head. This was not a threatening interruption, but rather, a delightfully lucky one. He presented her with the cup of coffee he'd been preparing, surprising Abigail and Will alike. 

"Hannibal has a thing about preparedness." Will explained wryly as she took the cup. Hannibal went to the sink, spoon and french press in hand. "Apparently in any circumstance."

"The opposite of you, then." She quipped. She took her first sip, relishing the taste. "Is there cardamom in this?" 

Will stifled a laugh as he nodded, and Hannibal's face sparked with delight. Two points for Will, then. 

"So, what have you heard of me? Any dark secrets? Will hasn't told me about you." She asked, tone shifting into slight diffidence as she addressed her questions to Hannibal. 

"Very little," Hannibal confessed. He had taken the french press to the sink to wash it as he spoke, and Will awkwardly went to dry it when he was done. Hannibal moved with such ease it gave him the appearance of a man very familiar with the apartment, as though he hadn't walked in for the first time earlier that day. It was a little disconcerting, to see a stranger so confident moving through his home. But it was also oddly soothing to have a such an unpracticed sense of domestic agreeability with someone who by all accounts, was still really a stranger. "Will and I have only just become acquainted. He once mentioned your skill with Latin in passing conversation, however I wasn't aware you were in the city. I was quite impressed; do you plan to integrate dead languages into your degree plan?"

"Still undecided," She admitted. "Though I have a few things I'm pondering over. I don't want to make any choices too soon."

"That is absolutely correct. One must take these things seriously." Hannibal said appreciatively, handing Will the french press to dry.

"Oh? Are you still looking into publishing?" Will asked, drying the french press and returning it to its cabinet. "Or are there other fields that I've caught your fancy since midterms?" 

"Maybe. I've actually been thinking about doing something in psychology. I don't know what, exactly, but maybe working with teenagers and kids. I think I'm going to take a developmental psychology course next semester. I'm still looking into publishing, but I think it might be a little too dry." 

Hannibal's interest perked noticeably at the mention of psychology.

"Well, if you've got any question about the field, you're in good company. Hannibal's a psychiatrist." Will explained, and her eyes brightened. "And I have a friend - Alana - you could talk to. She lives in Virginia, but she travels fairly often, and you could talk to her over the phone. She doesn't work exclusively with teenagers, but she has plenty of experience with them."

"Alana Bloom?" Hannibal asked, familiarity clearly sparked.

"Do you know her?" Will replied, surprised. 

"I mentored her at John's Hopkins. I learned as much from her as she did from me. She's a wonderful psychiatrist, and I hear she's begun giving lectures at universities around the state. I think she'd be more than happy to give you any guidance I couldn't provide." Hannibal said. He seemed suddenly rather charming, and Will realized that it might simply be the fact that he was watching Hannibal talk to someone else for once - charm was a natural accessory of Hannibal's company. Maybe it was the fondness in his voice when he spoke about Alana, too, but thinking back, Hannibal's questions were odd but never overly imposing like they might've been from someone else, but rather, were a part of the charm. 

"Guess I lucked out." Abigail smiled, tucking her hair back behind her ear, a soft laugh at the ground. "My brother, looking after me again. Speaking of which - I'm really disappointed Will. I was sure you'd have picked up another stray by now."

Will laughed and nodded in acquiescence. It had been a while since he'd come home with a stray dog, but not for lack of looking, there were simply fewer strays on the street. Good for the dogs, but it made the apartment feel a bit emptier. 

"Yeah, I think the stray problem is actually getting better around this neighborhood, at least, I haven't seen any around," He admitted. 

"Do you rescue stray animals?" Hannibal asked, intrigued. "This explains your patience," he turned to Abigail. "I'm afraid I've put dear Will through quite a few trials as his customer."

"Nonsense, Hannibal. I mean - I _am_ the only one there who knows how to take your orders, but -"  _Careful, Will_ , "it's uh, a break in the routine at the very least." 

Abigail had heard of the pesky mythology customer before, though not extensively. He could see her connecting the dots, the realization shifting into a big grin as it clicked.

"You're the one that asks Will all those weird questions, aren't you?" she laughed.  

Hannibal and Abigail's discussion flowed cleanly, and Will was pleased, but not entirely surprised. There was a quality to Hannibal that, while he couldn't quite place it, Will recognized in himself, in his sister, and the charm continued to emanate from his person, easing Abigail's slight reserve. Perhaps that was the reason he'd entertained Hannibal's little games, the origami and the odd comments, though there was also a certain magic to being pursued by a stranger, if one could call this a pursuit. Hannibal's little attentions, the origami and the flicker of light in his eyes when he was pleased, lit something in Will he hadn't known he had before, and he was suspecting now that Hannibal had been using his charm on Will all along, so effectively so that he hadn't noticed until it was directed towards someone else. Hannibal's comments were odd, however, and mostly too cryptic, and besides that, he was a man. He didn't think they'd have anything to offer each other. 

But then there was the gravestone - the imagined memory of the three of them by Bernstein's grave - what had they been, the three of them in that moment in his mind, if not everything? A perfect family, Hannibal and Will standing like fathers by Abigail's side. A moment like that seemed to offer much more than nothing. 

But before long, Hannibal was politely apologizing for overstaying his welcome, Abigail smiling brightly and letting Will walk him out alone.

"I had no intention of taking such advantage of your kindness, Will," Hannibal said, gathering his coat at the door. "I must repay it the next time our paths cross. It was a pleasure to have met your sister." 

Abigail stood at the entrance to the hall, a light smile on her face, arms crossed as she leaned up against the wall. 

"Really, Hannibal, stop apologizing. This whole thing is my fault. I - uh - I'll bring your stuff by your office?" He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. 

"Then we have both taken advantage of one another, and we are equally guilty. Perhaps after we could 'get a beer', as you suggested before."

Will laughed, the words sounding foreign and endearing coming out of Hannibal's mouth, he ran a hand across his scruff again and nodded.

"Okay, Hannibal. I'll - uh, I'll call you. Thanks for everything."

"And you as well. Goodbye, Will."

Will sighed as he locked the door, still embarrassed but overall unremorseful of the day's events. Who said the kiss had to mean anything, really? It was a thing of the moment, a slip up if anything. It wasn't as if Will had been suppressing his sexuality - had he? It was one thing to think  _huh, he'd got a nice face_ , and another to date him, and sure, he'd had those thoughts before - eyes catching on the smile of a stranger, on the curve of muscle here or there - but that hardly made him  _gay_. 

Meeting Abigail too, had not gone poorly - in fact, the three of them seemed better for the company of one another, despite the initial awkwardness of bad timing. He returned to the living room with the feeling that, despite everything, he'd been very lucky. 

"So, how long have you been seeing him?" Abigail gave him no time to recover from the unexpected visit; the moment Will stepped back into the living room, the question popped from her mouth, a knowing smile on her face. 

"What? We - I'm not, Abigail." Will he tried to laugh it off but, but he was putting on nervous affectations again, hand at the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes. What was worse - she wasn't teasing him, just picking up on the atmosphere between them. That was the trouble with dealing with people as intuitive as Abigail or as observant as Beverly; they saw everything. Not that he could really complain about  _other_  people's empathy. 

"Oh." She said, fiddling with her empty coffee mug. She avoided his eyes, but whether if was for his sake or her own, he couldn't tell. "Why not?" 

"He's a regular at work. He's - a really interesting guy. But today was more circumstance than anything." 

"Maybe circumstance is trying to tell you something," she replied, her eyebrows raised, her shoulders sagging as she crossed her arms. "I mean - I come to see you to tell you I'm thinking about a psych major and you've got a cute doctor stowed away in your kitchen? Besides, I  _saw_ the way you two were in the kitchen. Looked more than circumstantial to _me_." she'd taken on a wry, playful tone.

For a stupid moment Will was confused - how could she have known about -  _oh_ , of course. She was talking about after.

"Honestly, that kind of surprised me too. He's just very good at making himself comfortable. I think he felt bad about my hand too; Price called me over to the register when he saw Hannibal come in, and it startled me while I was taking some bagels out of the oven." 

"You're so full of excuses!" Abigail smirked. "Men are the worst. Just admit that you like him. What's so bad about that? I wanna talk to him again. And this Alana you guys were both talking about. She sounds really cool."

He thanked his sister silently for the easy change of subject. Alana was a much simpler topic, and he'd much rather talk about the options and hard details of a psychology major than his beaten sexuality. He hadn't seen Alana in a while, but they kept in touch fairly well, and they usually made time to go out when she was in the city. When had they last met up? It seemed ages ago, now. He was due for another call, at least, and it seemed now, Hannibal due for his first later this week. 

Abigail forewent staying the night, which he'd expected; she had classes early in the morning, and it was generally too much trouble to get up early and travel back to campus when she could take a taxi home and wake up half an hour before class. They hugged as she left, promising to make plans for the upcoming week as their schedules allowed, Abigail pressing him to keep an open mind in regards to Hannibal, Will reminding her to give Alana a call in a few days. 

When she'd gone, the apartment felt empty. He was surprised Beverly hadn't dropped by, but then again, he hadn't checked his phone since he'd gotten home; he might've missed her call. He went to his backpack and dug it out, silently grateful the rain hadn't damaged it. Two missed calls and a text from Abigail, trying to warn of her arrival, one from Price and one from Crawford, four from Beverly.

 _> >Hey Will. Heard you burned your hand. Way-to-go, Graham-Cracker. Should I bring marshmallows, or are smores out of the question_?

>> _Price just told me count weirdo took you home, woooooop. straight my ass I want updates._

>> _I was kidding before but._.. _The fact that you're not answering these messages makes me think you're either dead or reclined at third base. Drinks later?_

>> _Okay! You're busy, whatever. Use protection!_

Oh god. The first message was from about half an hour after he'd gotten off work - probably while he was walking to the apartment with Hannibal. The last from 9:18, about an hour ago. 

>> _Sorry Bev. Hannibal gave me a ride & Abigail dropped by. Not gay yet, srry to disappoint_.

He was changing into his pajamas (stripping to his boxers, that is) when he remembered Hannibal's business card in his jacket pocket. The rain - oh god. He went to the door and groped in the pockets, hand coming out with a wrinkled, ruined wet business card. The phone number on the back was gone - ink bled away by the rain, but the address of Hannibal's office was intact, as was the office number.  _Well, looks like I'll have to make an_ _appointment_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! How many of you guessed Abigail was the mystery sister? Or the mystery knocker? :)
> 
> Again, I'm sorry if any of you got emails about an update that wasn't up anymore! After posting it (half a sleep, tbh) yesterday I did a glance over it and realized it had a ton of mistakes and that I wanted to rewrite the entire second half of it (whoops).  
> I also had originally intended to have Beverly be our mystery knocker, but did some thinking and decided it was time to bring Abby in, but those rewrites happened a bit earlier on.  
> I will update again as soon as possible, but I'm working on the final chapter for the other Hannigram story I'm writing, so the wait might be longer than usual. I love you guys so much, I hope you enjoyed!  
> you can find me on tumblr [here](http://ourdeathswillstopnothing.tumblr.com) if it suits your fancy~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait! but this one is a bit longer than usual, hopefully the wait was worth it!  
> I haven't done as much editing as I wanted to before posting, so I'll go back and fix stuff but feel free to point out typos and stuff.  
> Still working on the last chapter for my other work, and on a very special piece for the Hannibal Gift Exchange! so that might slow down chapter eight's arrival. I'm going to _try, try try_ to get chapters written this following week so I have stuff to publish when I go out of the country, but if it's a while before I update, you know why!

The following week the spring rain was harsh and unrelenting, and accompanied still by the cold tendrils of winter, refusing to blow away. April was slow approaching, March still unrelenting and cruel, though rising from the freezing thirties into the chilly but kinder forties; it was still hardly pleasant weather, and with the unpredictability of March in New York City, was just as likely to plunge down the next day.

Customer’s moods were equally volatile with the weather; some days people flooded in with platitudes of warmth and others with eyes rung so into their skulls they looked more like empty sockets, with orders curt or to the point and tips measly. Will had come to learn that volatility in times of bad weather was best for business and for tipping, however, as a customer might rush in, cheeks ruddy and fingers chilled but high-spirited for the warmth and promise awaiting inside their little shop, tipping generously with both smiles and money, on the first chilly day of the week, and was liken to breeze in, kindly and imperturbable on the first day above forty degrees. These same customers would often turn sour after the fourth day of cold and rain, however, their morning breakfast and tea becoming a routine born of cruel necessity in lieu of a soothing balm to the desperate chill, while the rushed worker took no pause for the shop at all in the case of the former; _it’s not quite that chilly today_.

        Will had not made to contact Hannibal since the trip to his apartment. He might’ve, if he’d still had the doctor’s cell phone number, and been able to send a simple text. The prospect of calling Hannibal’s office, however while at first pleasant and laughable, now seemed daunting and awkward, and while he had the address, it seemed worse and in fact extremely rude to simply show up. Though this is not to say he wasn’t tempted, if only to return the suit, which had surprisingly _not_ been totally ruined by the rain. He thought. Maybe. He didn’t know much about suits.

        Abigail had pressed him gently to do _something_ , be it an impromptu visit or awkward chat with his receptionist to set a date or at the least retrieve Hannibal’s number. It was just as much for his sake as for her own, however, as she was indeed taking the prospects of future psychology courses seriously. He had apologized and substituted with Alana’s number, which he had initially forgotten to give her, with the promise that he’d forward Hannibal’s number as soon as he recovered it. She could learn a great deal from Alana besides, and felt she might be more suited both in nature and in a practical measure for Abigail’s inquiries. He had called Alana a day after discussing it with his sister, explaining the situation, and she had been delighted that he’d thought to refer his sister to her.

        “I’d love to talk to your sister, Will. I’ve already heard so much about her it feels like it’s about time! Is this a new consideration for her? Are we still eliminating options, or is she thinking she’s ready to declare? Can you text me her number? I screen all my calls and I don’t want to miss her.”

        Many people studied psychology for the sake of understanding themselves, Will had often heard, and then gone into psychology or psychiatry only to be disappointed by the actual application of the job—discussing one’s projection was all fine and dandy in intro to psych freshman year, but one could hardly point the magnifying glass entirely at one’s self while treating patients and expect to be of any use to anybody. He had little doubt this was not Abigail, and yet he’d feel better to know for sure.

        “It’s caught her eye, but I think she’s taking it pretty seriously. She’s a little impulsive, but she’s figuring herself out, I think she wants to get a sound feeling of what she’d be getting into. She met a friend of mine—Hannibal Lecter, maybe you know him?—recently, but I think you’d be a better fit.”

            “Oh! I know Hannibal. He’s a great mentor. Is there something in particular about me that makes you think I’d be a better fit if you don’t mind me asking? Other than, you know, my convenient location several states away.”

        “You mentioned a while back you work with younger patients,” Will explained, jumping in quickly. “Abigail is looking at child and adolescent psychology as her main focus right now; I know Hannibal can give her a comprehensive look at the field, but I think you can give her a better idea of the specialization she’s looking at. I only really got to know Hannibal recently, so I don’t want to throw all of this on his lap, either.” He said, leaving out the fact that Hannibal had, in fact, _offered_ his knowledge to Abigail directly.

        “Oh, well I can certainly talk to Abigail about specializing with younger patients, and if she decides on the major there are plenty of people I can introduce her too; I’m sure Hannibal would say the same. How did you say you met Hannibal?”

        “He’s a regular at the shop, he—“ Will paused. “Made an impression. He gave me a ride home the other day and met my sister during a surprise visit.” He balanced the phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he spoke; he was working on a particularly special lure, readying himself for the eventual opportunities of fishing trips with Abigail in the spring. He’d thought about inviting Beverly too, though he was reluctant, as always, to err from this tradition. “Why do you ask?”

        “I’m just surprised, that’s all,” Alana admitted honestly. “Hannibal is very…particular about who he lets into his life—not that you’re not _up to par_ or anything. You must’ve done something to catch his eye.”

        And, from what Will could tell, this was at least partly true. He had thought over the moment in the kitchen several times, trying to trace the pattern of Hannibal’s, and, reliving the moment, and had decided in the end to forget it. It would be a secret born between friends, if he and Hannibal were indeed to be friends, buried and not spoken of again. He would make the call in time, sooner rather than later, he’d promised himself, if only for the sake of his sister. But instead of calling the office after getting off the phone with Alana he’d simply done his due diligence to Abigail in the singular respect of a text;

>> _Talked to Alana, gave her your number._

To which she’d replied, quicker than he’d expected;

>> _OH! Perfect, thanks! Meeting with an advisor next week_

>> _Did you get Hannibal’s number yet?_

 

        He’d finally called the office two weeks after the fact, reaching a receptionist and explaining he was a friend and that he’d lost Hannibal’s number. The receptionist had refused to give him Hannibal’s phone number; office policy.

        “Can I _speak_ to Hannibal?” Will sighed, his head plopping back onto his pillow. He had to leave for work in half an hour; he’d been hoping to get the number before he had to go in, but he’d been stalling and now it was ten am and he was lying in a mess of sheets, still in his boxers and t-shirt, un-showered and hair untamed.

        “I’m sorry, I can’t transfer you without prior approval. Can I have your name?” the receptionist sounded young, maybe a few years younger than him, and spoke in a voice that was both patient and firm.

        “Will Graham,” he fought back the groan that tried to slip into his voice. “Can you just tell him I lost his number and to call me back?”

        The receptionist took his number and promised to give Hannibal the message, and Will had to stop stalling. He could hardly complain; ten am was a good shift, but he couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm to do much more than climb out of bed and stand in front of the mirror. He ran the tap cold and splashed it on his face and then ran his fingers through his hair; there was no salvaging it. He rubbed aftershave on over his stubble and gargled mouthwash before changing and rushing out of the apartment, hoping his rushed grooming would cover the shower he hadn’t had time to take. It was a six-hour shift, and it didn’t pass quickly; his stomach began an angry growl an hour in and they were too busy to be afforded proper breaks. It was another dreary day, showers intermittent throughout the afternoon and a strong chill in the air, and so customers were either alternatively sullen or appreciative. Hannibal did not come in; as he had not come in since the day Will had burned his hand. Will tried not to look for him in passing moments when something—whether it be chai tea and poppy seeds or the occasional jab at Will’s clumsiness—reminded him he was expecting a call back, and— _shit,_ he’d forgotten to mention he’d miss the call in the message he’d left with the receptionist.

        His shift fifteen minutes late, by which point his hunger was in a state of feigned remission, and he forgot to eat before he left the store. He had a missed call from an unfamiliar number on his phone, the notification light flashing small and green to tell him he’d been left a voicemail.

        “Hello, Will,” Hannibal’s voice ripped the foggy veil in which Will had wrapped their last meeting, and he realized for the first time how uncommon it was not to have Hannibal stop in more often. His voice seemed deeper, richer, for the time without it. “You are welcome to reach me at this number in the future.” His voice was formal, but not lacking warmth, and Will felt guilty as the implications of his delayed call occurred to him.

        He thought it over it for a moment, still with guilt on the corner of Eighth Avenue and 14th street by the subway entrance before deciding to call back. The phone rang thrice and then Hannibal answered, his voice rushed and breathy.

        “Will—I’m afraid you’ve caught me at an awkward time, I—“ he heard shuffling sounds of fabric, Hannibal’s breath rushed and then a muttered curse. “Will—could I trouble you to ask where you are at the moment?”

        “Uh, yeah, I’m at 14th and Eighth by the subway station, uh—what’s up? Is everything okay?” Will asked dubiously.

        “I—uh—am attempting to restrain a rather rambunctious stray animal I happened upon after leaving my office for the day, but I find myself ill-equipped and—“

        “Where are you?”

        Hannibal, as it turned out, was only a few blocks away. Will broke into a jog, his breath an icy fog in the air and his feet splashing up puddles as he weaved through the evening crowd. He spotted Hannibal wrestling with a rather rambunctious jacket on the corner by his black Bentley. He looked a bit ruffled, one arm wrapped firmly around it and the other underneath, perhaps holding the small creature’s jaws shut.

        “Hannibal!” he called as he jogged over, waiving so he’d see him. An expression of relief immediately came upon him, some of the tense muscles in his body relaxing—and then tensing again as the animal struggled against him.

        “Will,” Hannibal sighed as Will reached him, the bundle still struggling against him desperately. “I’m afraid you have more experience in matters such as these. I wouldn’t have imposed, but I’m afraid I’ll need help getting her to the shelter.”

        “Don’t worry about it.” Will scoffed, stepping forward to take the bundle. “Shelters are overcrowded during this time of year, I’ll take her back to my apartment, she’s probably starving, needs a warm bath.” He had to slide his arm under the bundle and over Hannibal’s chest to transfer the grip of the struggling creature so that for a moment it was as if they were hugging it between them. The smell hit Will like a semi-truck; rotten and musty, and he nearly choked on it as they transferred the animal from Hannibal’s arms to his own.

        It was _not_ a dog. The wriggling black creature wrapped in Hannibal’s jacket was, in fact, a mangy black _cat_ , something Will only realized when he saw that Hannibal’s other hand was tucked into the jacket to pinch its scruff. He replaced Hannibal’s hand with his own and the creature struggled against him as he held it to his chest. Hannibal opened the passenger door of his car and Will climbed in without preamble. He had something for animal anxiety at home, but until then they’d have to suffer through it, and so he spoke softly to the creature in hopes that he might calm it, unsure of how effective such coaxing might be on a feline. He'd never rescued a cat before, though not from lack of trying. Cats didn’t like him; maybe it was that he smelt like dog, or just didn't have that _thing_ cats required in an owner and regardless, he'd never taken care of one as a result.

        "Shhh, shhh, it's okay, it's okay..." Will murmured softly as the cat wriggled against him. Hannibal climbed into the driver's seat and turned the heater, regarding him with the same restrained distaste.

        "I don't usually pick up strays," he explained.

 _"_ How did you manage to catch him?" Will asked, allowing the cat's head to peak it’s head from the jacket, eyes swallowed by blown pupils. The cat's fur was thick with dirt and matted in spots, with a combination of filth and what might have been dried blood. She had a thick scar across her forehead and another under her jaw. He couldn't say for sure, but from what he could see of the cat made him think, unsurprisingly, it hadn't eaten properly in weeks, at least. He wasn't really a cat person, but staring into her eyes, orange of the iris swallowed by the black of her pupils, he knew he couldn't abandon the creature. "It's okay, shhh, it's all right..." he said, when the struggles began to subside in place of violent trembling.

        "He had climbed onto the front wheel of my car; I've been advised to check for animals huddling for warmth. I managed to grab her before she woke."

        "I don't have any, uh, cat supplies at my apartment." He had dog food but no cat box, food, or litter... "Can we stop at a market on the way back to grab some stuff? I can direct you there if you don't mind."

 _"_ "Of course." Hannibal agreed amicably.

        Hannibal parked across the street from the market and they went in together, Will still holding the anxious creature tightly to his chest, though it was more for comfort than restraint. Hannibal grabbed a shopping buggy before Will had to ask him, and they walked through to the pet care section first. They paused in front the cat litter, the food, the litter boxes and all; neither of them knew anything about cats.

        "This food claims to 'reinvigorate your cat's aging--'" Will paused, stifling a laugh. "‘Bowels’. Yeah okay, not this one." Hannibal raised an eyebrow at him and gave him the barest indication of a smile.

        "Perhaps one with the promise of...'reducing hairballs'?" Hannibal quipped, surprising Will so successfully he would've doubled over, if not for the cat still cradled in his arms.

        "Aaaah, maybe we'll just stick to 'adult cat' for now," Will replied.

        They loaded up the basket, making jokes the entire time as they selected cat litter, food, a cat box, flea and tick medicine, dewormer and toys. The cat was more on edge the longer they stayed in the store, however, and you weren't, strictly speaking, allowed to smuggle cats into markets anyways. The brands Hannibal picked Will eyed a bit dubiously, fighting the urge to ask if he was choosing based on price and packaging, as he seemed to grab the most expensive brand from every section. Will dropped back when they made for the register, sidetracking and then returning with a case of beer. Hannibal gave him a surprised, if amused look in question.

        "I, uh, was gonna invite you to grab that beer today," Will admitted, using his left hand to drop the case into the basket and the right to support the cat. "Hope this is a satisfactory substitution."

        "I'm usually more particular about what I put into my body," Hannibal admitted. "But for this occasion, I will make an exception on the strict condition I am allowed Ito prepare dinner." His tone was polite and imploring as if he were asking a favor.

        "Oh? Do you cook, Dr. Lecter?" Will scoffed playfully. "Are you sure our little local market will accommodate your standards?"

        Hannibal regarded him with what (though politely concealed) could only be a manifestation of pride.

        "I am quite the chef," he replied. “It would be quite unimpressive if I were not adaptable to varying situations.” That said, it was only moments later that Will realized he had made a mistake in allowing Hannibal the freedom to choose their meal—so much for this month’s budget.

        “Oh, Hannibal, come on—“ Will had complained as Hannibal picked up the most expensive bottle of white wine the market carried.

        “Fine ingredients create a finer product, Will. I implore to you to trust me.”

        And when they’d gotten to the register, Will had dug for his wallet with one hand, the cat trembling lightly against his chest, only to have Hannibal put his hand on his shoulder, his eyes boring Will’s beseechingly, and Will had stopped searching and stepped aside for Hannibal to pay.

        Hannibal had carried most of the groceries up as well, Will feeling less self-conscious about the apartment—which was clean (at least by his standards) at least for _this_ surprise visit.

        Will rushed into the apartment and went straight to the linen closet, grabbing a towel and a washcloth before going back to the sink, which was mercifully empty. He set the cat down on the counter, his arms a bit stiff from holding it in the same position for so long, and pulled the anti-anxiety pet medication out of the cabinet and used a syringe to force some of it down the cat’s throat.

        “It shouldn’t be long now,” Will said. He picked up the cat and put it in the sink. The cat was scrawny, but her belly was swollen—either from worms or from starving. Will trimmed at the thicker mats of fur first, running warm water over the cloth in the other side. He didn’t know much about cats, but he did know that trying to submerge it in a bath was more likely to hurt him than help the cat. Hannibal stood by him and watched as he wet the shaking cat’s fur, running the soaked rag over its fur as it trembled violently and tensed, it’s back twitching against the movements. Some fur came out as he did so, and bald spots revealed themselves as he scrubbed, and then laid the rag under running water.

        “C’mon, I need you to hold her for a minute.” Will said, and Hannibal stepped over and took hold of the cat’s scruff the same way Will had been. Will squirted a large dollop of blue dawn soap on his hands and lathered it between them before gently spreading it through the cat’s fur as Hannibal held it in place so that the two were standing side to side. Will worked his fingers through the fur diligently, scrubbing through the remains of the matted sections. He could feel scars and two wounds—one on her neck and one on her left front leg, swollen with pus. They coaxed the cat with soft words as Hannibal cleaned the wounds, cutting off all the surrounding fur and cleaning the gashes with diluted iodine before washing the cat over again, this time taking advantage of the anti-anxiety medicine to gently run a stream of warm water over her fur, their hands gently massaging the soap out of her fur. She had stopped shaking at some point during the process, her pupils still blown, but eyes dropping closed, heart slower than before. It was an extremely intimate act, both calming and slightly disgusting, though the rotten smell eased once they’d drained the wounds and scrubbed the dirt out of her fur. The work required them to stand extremely close, and their hands overlapped as they ran their hands through the cat’s fur, and Will caught himself staring at Hannibal’s hands a time or two. They were large and strong, and if he’d imagine them rough if they weren’t constantly brushing against his now, if he hadn’t felt their smoothness against his face the last time they’d been in the kitchen alone together.

        They dried the cat and dressed the wounds in bandages before applying the flea medicine and setting out a bowl of food and water. It would take time before the cat gained her appetite back after the anxiety medicine, but better to be ready. Cleaned, drying and bandaged, she looked better, but rather pathetic; chops of her already thin fur coat missing, bald spots and scars more obvious, the pouching swollen belly making Will anxious, though Hannibal said she wasn’t pregnant. Worms, probably. Will wrapped her in his favorite flannel blanket and held her to his chest with the tenderness one generally set aside for children. The cat was much more accepting of the hold now; warm, clean and settled by the medication, her eyes closing as she snuggled against Will.  He settled against the counter with his second beer, and Hannibal watched them fondly as he began dinner, waving off Will’s offers to help.

        “Another night, Will. I have imposed upon you far too much this evening.”

        “One of us is always imposing upon the other,” Will replied wryly.

        Hannibal was, as promised, not abstaining from Will’s cheap beer, though he stayed one drink behind Will the whole night. Will took comfort in watching Hannibal cook; he was preparing roast pheasant, beginning by boiling water on the stove to soak porcini mushrooms and setting them aside, going to work browning the pheasant in a pan of sunflower seed oil; later cooking mushrooms, cut potatoes and strips of big meat that Hannibal _refused_ to call bacon, no matter how much Will tried to tease him into it, with the white wine. The pheasant had to be allowed to sit, it's drained juices used later to add extra flavor to the vegetables and “pork strips”. The meal took over an hour to prepare—longer than Will usually set aside for his dinners, but definitely worth it all the same, though his stomach was once again gnawing desperately at his gut. He placed the cat on the couch, still wrapped in the flannel blanket and wandered to the bathroom to wash up. 

        “We’ll have to give her a name,” Will said over the pheasant. He had no dining room table, and so they’d opted for an impromptu meal on the floor on cushions across from each other the coffee table, beer set aside for the remains of the wine. Will a step or two past _slightly_ drunk at this point. He glanced at the cat, completely comatose on the couch, snuggled deeper into the blanket. For his part, Will had been unable to resist the urge to throw a blanket over his own shoulders (as it no longer occurred to him he might simply turn up the temperature in his apartment) though Hannibal, for his part, seemed merely amused.

        “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I suggested we get a beer.” Will admitted, leaning forward so both his elbows were rested against the coffee table, cheek mushed against his hand as he brought a bite of pheasant to his lips. The flavor was herbal and salty, the meat melting across his tongue. He let out a small moan and forgot to be embarrassed about it, his stomach like a ravenous pit. The wine, for its part, was sweeter than he’d expected, and welcomingly so. Truth be told, Will generally preferred wine to beer and all in all, he was a whiskey and scotch kinda guy. He’d suggested beer because of its base unoriginality, curious if the invitation would be accepted. The bet proved fruitful, and when he’d asked for a beer Hannibal had smiled, _properly_ smiled, wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes like Will had never seen before, as he clipped back the tab Will’s beer and handed it to him.

        “Not my favorite drink,” he’d admitted, mischief in his eyes as he sipped his own beer, so casual Will felt he was being teased. “But I can indulge if it is required of me. I did attend university, Will.”

        Now, with the white wine in one of Will’s finer glasses—mismatched to his own, admittedly, he’d lost the set—he seemed more in place, if equally at ease. The blush upon his cheeks was softer than that on Will’s but present none-the-less.

        “The unexpected path is often all the more appreciated for its ability to surprise us. Our new friend certainly appreciates the novelty of this excursion.” His eyes flickered towards the cat indicatively. “You seem to prefer privacy regardless, so it seems this is more comfortable for all of us.”

        “That’s true,” Will said, scrubbing a hand across his scruff. “I don’t usually deal with animals in that bad of shape by myself. Maybe it was fate I finally called you.”

        “I had begun to suspect I wouldn’t hear from you again,” Hannibal admitted.

        “I lost your number,” He replied honestly, taking a large bite of mushrooms and pheasant and giving a heavy shrug. “Can you blame me for being a little intimidated to call you?”

        Hannibal bowed his head slightly, and gave the smallest of nods in acquiescence, and though Will’s voice hadn’t been accusatory, Hannibal looked as though he were accepting blame.

        “I must apologize for my misguided behavior during my last visit. I did not mean to shame you for your reluctance, only to express my genuine surprise you were still inclined to reach out. I’m—“

        Will could see it on him; though he averted his gaze, his eyebrows dipped as if in acceptance of admonishing, hands folded in his lap. Will could see straight through it.

_Liar._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed. ;) I wasn't intending to end the chapter here, but it was getting so long...!  
> you can find me on tumblr [here](http://ourdeathswillstopnothing.tumblr.com) if it suits your fancy.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait!! I started working on finishing the chapter as soon as I got back from Europe. I actually did a fair amount of editing on this one, so fingers crossed that I didn't miss any mistakes!  
> Also!! If you pay attention to that kind of thing, you might've also noticed I'm finally going through and editing old chapters! Which means a tad bit of new content and (hopefully) fewer errors. I'm hoping to go through all of them and give them a good scrub up--I'm about halfway through!

            “I think mendacity is probably a bad way to kindle friendship, Hannibal.” Will interrupted, spearing a forkful of pheasant so hard that the fork scraped shrilly against the glass plate underneath. Sourness sunk into him like a warm bath, facile and familiar and he took a gulp of wine as he skimmed over Hannibal’s expression. He looked clearly taken aback, his face affecting an expression of surprise through the mask. Will’s emotions were more easily swayed when he was drinking; ticks and twitches of emotion that otherwise bubbled under his skin popped to the surface, and he often found himself either lost in his own emotions or in those of others, going so far as to affect another person’s body language without realizing it, mimicking their movements in a way that the inattentive found silently comforting, while more vigilant company was often more moved in the opposite direction. All in all, as a drinker, Will was either entirely himself or wholly his company.

        “Do you feel my actions were intentionally untoward, Will?” Hannibal’s gaze was unyielding and unmet, refusing to balk at the accusation. Will wasn’t sure if he should chalk this to a guiltless nature or true innocence, and so instead he opted to file it away as a quirk.

        “Let’s forget it, okay? It never happened.” Will replied. He was vaguely aware of the flush growing stronger on his face, Under Hannibal’s gaze he felt stuck somewhere between flattered and well—there isn’t really a verb for “getting the heeby-jeebies” is there? He blamed the wine even as he took another sip, the subtle floral whispers with a fine honey taste he’d heard once accompanied well-aged Riesling such as this—he wouldn’t have noticed if he wouldn’t know about it beforehand. He took another bite of mushroom and pheasant, the juices rolling brilliantly across his tongue, and said the thing that had been nagging at his head all night. “So, why all of this?” he gestured to the meal and the wine, to the both of them on either side of it. “Not that I don’t appreciate it. It’s delicious, I can’t remember the last time I had a meal that wasn’t warmed up or delivered.” He was speaking with his food pushed to the right side of his mouth without realizing it, but if Hannibal noticed, he paid it no mind.

        “An apology for the inevitability that I was going to take advantage of you.” He nodded at the cat. “It seemed only fair, and as I said, I am quite the chef. Are you alright, Will?”

        Will had been mid-swallow when Hannibal had said he was going _take advantage_ of him, and he’d choked briefly on his food; he recovered swiftly-- moods and thoughts slipped too quickly around his mind when he was drunk, emotions flitting through words and changing before the end of a sentence. He wasn’t quite that drunk yet, but he was flirting with the notion. He nodded pathetically, clearing his throat.

        “So, _Doctor_ Lecter, tell me about yourself.” Will broached, regaining himself. _The less you speak, the less you can make a fool of yourself_ , a voice whispered in the back of his head, though he’d asked out of genuine curiosity.

        “The majority of my days are spent in a legal bind that leaves me unable to partake in open discussions.” Hannibal deflected, his eyes glimmering. His demeanor shifted easily with the change of subject, and his diversion was spoken with a charm that did nothing to avert Will’s tugging feelings of tension. “I would much rather hear more about you, Will. How is your sister?”

        Will guffawed as though Hannibal had told a joke, and shook his head and waved his hand in dismissal at the suggestion. _You want friendship; you’re going to have to bleed a little for it, first._

        “C’mon, Hannibal. You know where I work, that I rescue animals; you’ve been to my apartment, and now you’ve gotten me drunk. You’re past due.”

        “Might I propose a trade? I tell you things, and you tell me.”

        Will quirked an eyebrow, but a smile curled his lips at the corners, his eyes fixed in on the bridge of Hannibal’s nose.

        “Quid pro quo.” Will planted his cheek against the palm of his hand, elbow on the table, and feeling suddenly full of warmth. For his part, Hannibal looked pleased; the Latin phrase floating in his mind only to have Will pluck it out into sound. Maybe that was it—the reason Hannibal had sought after him--had come day after day to their little bagel shop to plumb through Will’s erudition. There was something in that, the combination of knowledge, patience and common mindedness required to answer most of Hannibal’s questions, and to play his games: a lazy smile bloomed onto Will’s face at the thought. “Or you could just tell me.”

        “That would spoil the game. Think of it as a trust-building exercise. If I ask a question you don’t want to answer, you are always free to refuse.”

        “Alright, Hannibal. You first.”

        Hannibal observed him closely, deciding on his question with care. Will could see the wheels turning behind his face, pondering; should he _tap_ the ice, or crack it?

        “Tell me about your father.”

        “Pass.”

        “Your mother, then.”

        “That’s lazy psychiatry, Doctor Lecter. Pass.”

        Hannibal paused. He looked more amused than annoyed. Will’s initial game had been to pass off any serious questions, but Hannibal seemed to be anticipating this. He tried again, tapping, this time, on the ice.

        “When did your inclination for obtaining strays begin?”

        Will paused. He had been prepared to dismiss the question and accept Hannibal’s surrender. But he appreciated the clear appeal to a more reasonable, less sensitive topic, and was never loathe talking about his dogs.

        “When I was young.” Will laughed, straightened up and stretched, his joints popping loudly. “I must’ve been what, five years old? She was, uh, this ugly mess, black Australian Shepard something, her fur was matted, and she jumped at the drop of a pin….She’d been hit by a car, and we took her in.” Will smiled behind his hand, the image becoming clearer in his mind. Will had jumped out of their car—still moving, of course--before his dad could argue, falling and scraping his knees on the concrete, tears streaming down his face as he ran to the dog in the street. “She healed up, in her own time, got attached. She’d try and take a chunk out of anyone she didn’t like, so we kept her.”

        Will stood up. He’d cleaned his plate and he was ready for something sweeter. The room swayed around him, and he closed his eyes: _get a fucking hold of yourself_. He had to pee, but a voice in the back of his head was reminding him to hold it unless he wanted to be in and out of the bathroom all night. Hannibal’s gaze followed him, and after a moment, he stood, collected their plates, and went to the kitchen to wash their dishes. Will thumped through the cabinets until he found the hot chocolate powder and didn’t argue or protest when he realized Hannibal was doing his dishes again.

        “Do you want some?” Will asked, grabbing a mug and pausing.

        “No, thank you, Will.”

        Will shrugged and went about making his hot chocolate, pausing to brace against the counter when watching the microwave made the room spin more around him. He leaned his head back against a top cabinet and closed his eyes, willing the room to stop swirling around him.

        “What made you become a psychiatrist? You have steady hands. You would’ve made a good surgeon.”

        “I started off as one, actually. A surgeon in the ER; little time for the little artistry I incorporate into my cooking now. We are there to clean up the mess when we can.”

        “Why did you stop being a surgeon?” Even with his eyes closed, the room still seemed to sway. He pulled himself back to sit on the edge of the counter. The microwave sang its ends shrilly, but Will settled back against a cabinet and deigned to ignore it.

            “I killed someone. More accurately, I couldn’t save someone. But it felt like killing them.”

This was more honesty than Will had expected. It didn’t fit with the picture Will had of him in his mind, however vague. It sounded like an emotional choice, not one a pragmatist like Hannibal would make. Will opened his eyes and found that the room has started to settle around him, if only slightly.

“You were an Emergency Room surgeon. It has to happen from time to time.”

“It happened one time too many,” Hannibal replied simply. “I transferred my passion for anatomy into the culinary arts. I fix minds instead of bodies and no one’s died as a result of my therapy.”

It was a conclusive reply; he was done addressing the subject. _Right, well, fair enough_. He sighed and let his head fall back on the cabinet again, eyes sliding closed as he waited to be prodded at.

“How did your mother react when your father came home with the dog?”

 _Of course_. He wasn’t going to let the parent issue drop.

“She didn’t.”

Hannibal threw a glance at him over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. Instead of a the blank, challenging stare he expected, he found Will still in his moment of reprieve. His eyelashes were thick and dark, more obviously luxurious with his eyes were closed. The pink flush across his cheek spread up to his ears, and his glasses were slid halfway down his nose. His body reflected none of the relaxation in his face, but rather looked like a taunt string, pulled too tightly and ready to snap, his shoulders tense and rigid, his hands seizing the edges of the counters tightly, and his breaths were careful and counted. Hannibal paused, taking in the sight for a few moments, a small smile on his face before he dried his hands and went to the microwave to finish preparing Will’s hot chocolate.

“It’s uh, _hard_ to react to something you don’t know about.” Will supplied finally, his voice slow and dragging. “I never knew my mother.”

“And Abigail’s mother?”

Hannibal paused in front of Will, and the latter’s eyes fluttered open. He took the hot chocolate, offering a smile and muttering “thanks.” awkwardly.

Hannibal settled against the counter to Will’s right, across from the bar. Will brought the mug to his nose and closed his eyes as he inhaled and took a careful sip. The taste bloomed across his tongue cinnamon and the faint smell of vanilla in his nose, undercurrents of nutmeg brightening the warmth in his face. _Of course_. He straightened up and shot Hannibal an accusatory look.

“You don’t turn off, do you?” His voice was accusatory but playful, laughing so hard he hard to put his mug down. He pulled off his glasses and dragged his hands down his face. If Hannibal was going to press him, he was going to press back, damned good hot chocolate or no. “Tell me about your mother, Hannibal.”

“Both my parents died when I was very young. The proverbial orphan until I was adopted by my Uncle Robertas when I was 16.” Hannibal replied. He stated it factually, without wistfulness, but Will’s attention had been recaptured, his eyebrows furrowed as he cataloged the information. He studied Hannibal’s face and paused thoughtfully before asking his next question.

           “What was your uncle like?” he sipped more of the hot chocolate.

            “He is a fine man. He and his wife raised me as their own, with a high sense of propriety and taste for social niceties as well as the ability to defend them.”

            _That_ piqued Will’s interest. “Your uncle taught you how to fight?”

            “My uncle was leaned more towards pacifism, but he held a strong respect for the ability to defend one’s self. My aunt held the same ideology. She taught me about her heritage, and a portion of this was learning to fight, yes. She imbued in me a strong sense of discipline. When I was a teenager my uncle suffered a heart attack during an altercation with the local butcher,” there was a subtle sourness to Hannibal’s voice as he spoke, but otherwise, his face was calm and measured, like he was explaining a theory of physics and not reliving a childhood trauma. “It was a defining moment in my development, after which I began my journey into medicine. When I was accepted into John’s Hopkins, my time in America began a new chapter in my life.”

Will tried to picture it in his head; young Hannibal showing up at the door of his Uncle’s home, freshly orphaned and alone; learning lessons of anatomy and decorum alongside athleticism and combative methodology. It was a compelling image, a jarring contrast to the memories Will had of his own childhood. When his mother left, there was no family wealth to keep him in good comfort, but there was a gap in Hannibal’s story. Orphaned young and adopted at 16. There was something there in the middle, something Hannibal was keeping. He decided not to push it, for now.

“Young Hannibal Lecter, starting fights in the market.” Hannibal watched Will’s expression shift with his thoughts and then soften as he spoke, his gold-green eyes clement as he let his guard down. “Where did you grow up?”

“My family hails from Lithuania, and I lived there with my parents for a short time. After their passing, I lived in an orphanage made from my family home, and then with my uncle in France, with occasional visits to Japan at the behest of my aunt. I toured Europe during school, and spent a great deal of time in Italy; whose arts and language spoke to parts of me that medicine did not.”

“They made your family home into an orphanage?”

“I believe the common belief around the action was that one should suffer his wealth for the advantage of many. I cannot dissent with the ideology, but I won’t say I benefited from it.”

“You come from money.”

“I do, but I’ve made my life in America on my own.” He paused. “Did your family have money, Will?”

“We were poor. I followed my father from the boat yards in Biloxi and Greenville to lake boats on Erie.”

“Always the new boy at school? Always the stranger?”

“Yes.”

“Harboring a half-buried grudge against the rich?”

“Not against you.”

Hannibal paused, quietly pleased, but he sensed the note of falseness in the reply.

“Not anymore, at least.” Hannibal corrected cheekily. Will nodded in acquiescence, vaguely amused. “And your sister?”

“We slowed down some after—she, uh, needed more _stability_ than I did.” He caught himself in the middle of stumbling through an explanation.

“Did your father pass recently, Will?”

Will’s gaze fixed hard on Hannibal’s brow. He felt the urge to direct him a harsh look, but he didn’t quite have the energy to make eye contact, despite the cool expression on Hannibal’s face, his hazel-red eyes soft and patient. Will wondered offhandedly if Hannibal used this method on his patients—he could see the appeal of having a man like Hannibal Lecter as a therapist; a man in his prime, finely groomed and well traveled with the benefit of being un-American but not _too_ foreign. His mannerisms and attire gave even further the impressions of a man who’s opinion was highly sought. _Hannibal Lecter: Making the average feel important every day for the low price of_ _three hundred dollars and hour!_ Will could see it in his head without trying, men and women posed across from Hannibal in a black aged leather armchair, or behind an ornate mahogany desk decorated sparsely with finely crafted materials. E didn’t even have the energy to be angry, really, he wasn’t sober enough to muster his defense system.

“Yeah.” Will finally answered.

“Was the death sudden?”

Will’s chest began to feel heavy, and he took another deep breath, trying to map his thoughts without delving into them. He hadn’t really spoken about his father with anyone but Abigail, Beverly (and Jack Crawford—briefly, the subject coming up in his job interview when he was asked about his resume, his sudden flight from school last March).

“Yeah. I was in school.” _Less is more_.

He tried to suppress the thoughts as they came back to him; in college, Will’s empathy had served no good with other students: he saw too much and had little in the way of social aptitude to accompany. He’d had friends, though, friends who had called after him when he’d rushed back to his dorm, hearing the urgency in his sister’s voice over the phone, her voice broken with sobs, tugging at his chest hard, his chest echoing a phantom of the agony now. He’d gone back to his dorm and collapsed on his bed behind a locked door, listening to her sob at a loss for words. He’d flown back without a word to his roommate.

A hand pressed on his shoulder and he jumped violently in surprise. The weight on his chest lifted, if only a fraction, and he fixed his gaze on the hand gripping his shoulder before finally willing himself to meet Hannibal’s eyes.

He felt like he could fall into them, the red center around his pupils bled out, if only slightly, into the predominately hazel color of his iris, and then—for a moment Will _was_ falling, and then he was being held up.

“Will?”

Hannibal was holding him up—he’d fallen off the counter. He straightened—he wasn’t _that_ drunk, or he didn’t think he was, but he was drunk enough that he didn’t so much mind being held like this. Hannibal had an arm wrapped around his back, his other hand pressed Will’s chest to stop him from falling forward. Will wasn’t usually one to be held, another side effect of keeping people constantly at a distance. He leaned into the hold with a small, huff of a sigh, and listened faintly to the sound of Hannibal’s heart, beating an easy rhythm against his ribs, warmth spreading across his skin where they touched. His eyes lidded, he inhaled deeply, thoughtfully memorizing the smell and then pausing halfway through the action _oh god that was weird, why did I do that_ —only to realize— _is Hannibal_ smelling _me too_? Hairs rose across on his arms, on the back of his neck, and he felt the abrupt urge to settle in closer against Hannibal’s chest. A voice in the back of his head reminded him that Hannibal was only a few inches taller than him, that he was hunched over and leaning into this guy’s chest. But it was nice. He didn’t care. Hannibal slowly began to walk him out of the kitchen.

“Will,” Hannibal said, his voice soft, tearing through the veil of sleep drifting over Will’s consciousness.

“Sorry,” Will mumbled. Hannibal paused to let him compose himself. Sleep was tugging harshly on Will’s body, and as he shifted some of his weight off Hannibal, he had to put an arm up to brace himself against the doorframe. His gaze drifted up to Hannibal’s face, but it stopped at his lips. Without realizing it, Will was leaning closer again, stopped abruptly by Hannibal’s hand on his shoulder again.

“Let’s get you to bed, Will.”

“You can sleep on the couch if you need to. I don’t know if you do that…but you can.”

“Thank you, Will.”

Will knew, even as Hannibal took his arm and guided him into this bedroom that Hannibal wasn’t going to stay. It was better that way. He was too far down the bottle to feel the awkward way this encounter might shape the morning, and Hannibal was a grown man in his 30’s, anyways. Will slipped out of Hannibal’s grip and into the bed. He was asleep by the time Hannibal brought the sheets up over his shoulders and dizzy with dreams by the time Hannibal closed the bedroom door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter!  
> I promised a friend I'd bring Chilton in the next couple of chapters so...you all have something extra to look forward to next time!  
> Please, let me know how you like it!!  
> As always, you can find me on Tumblr [here](http://ourdeathswillstopnothing.tumblr.com) if it suits your fancy.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will goes on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (late) Valentine's!  
> My amaaazing friend mikuridaigo (on tumblr and ao3) comissioned this adorable picture for this AU (even though she doesn't watch Hannibal--this is true friendship, okay????) and I just wanted to share it: http://ourdeathswillstopnothing.tumblr.com/post/138845054661/mikuridaigo-jibblyart-for-mikuridaigo-i

Will woke the following morning, not to the accordance of his sleeping schedule, or his alarm as he was generally accustomed, but to a loud, insistent mewling outside his door. Waking was not quite a sudden thing, as it rarely was for Will without the accompaniment of the occasional nightmare, but a gentle slip from the tides of sleep into the arms of consciousness with the abrupt knocking of cognizant processing. That is, the mewling seeming rather normal at first until it occurred to him that it was _real_ , and not a dream bleeding into reality. He sat up groggily, gawking at the bedroom door in alarm as the creature knocked and cried anxiously on the other side. A paw slid under the door, claws scratching at the floor. His first conscious thought of the morning was _I have a cat_.

His head was throbbing lighting against his skull, his muscles aching faintly. There was a glass of water by his bed and an array of unfamiliar pills that looked like vitamins. He stared at them for a long moment before recognizing them a gift likely left by Hannibal, and took them without further thought. He went to the door, opening it slowly so as not to alarm the animal now pacing on the other side.

“Hey there,” he said. She froze, staring at him with wide, horrified eyes, the black slits sinking narrower in the sea of orange iris.  She chirped at him softly and he kneeled down and extended a hand out to her cautiously, and she bolted down the hall. He sighed and went into the bathroom to take a shower, and after five minutes the crying resumed. He brushed his teeth and put on boxers and a t-shirt before heading to the kitchen to fill her food and water bowls. His kitchen had been tidied up, no evidence of the previous night left except the bag of trash bundled by the can, fitted with a fresh and empty one, and a note written in eloquent writing on the bar.

_Good morning, Will. I left breakfast for you in the fridge; I hope you’ll pardon me this intrusion._

_Is this what it feels like to be in a relationship?_ He wondered with light humor. He made coffee with the Keurig and peeked into the fridge to find a small, rectangular cast iron skillet sitting neatly on the top shelf, a white piece of paper placed carefully on top. He recognized it from a set he rarely used, dug up from one of his cupboards. He pulled it out, finding (unsurprisingly) neatly written instructions as to finish preparing the egg nestled among chopped seeds, vegetables, and spices. He turned the oven on to heat and left the skillet out on the counter to wait as he set up the litter box they’d bought the night before was now in the bathroom, snug between the toilet and the cabinets on which the sink rested. He had yet to find any evidence that the cat had relieved itself anywhere else, and for this, he was silently grateful. He set up the scratching post they’d bought the night before but left the smaller, cheap toys in the bag.

Will found his phone, unattended to and dying in the pocket of the pants he’d been wearing the night before and he set it to charge after sending Abigail a message with Hannibal’s number. He was about to follow up with a text to Beverly when the front door to his apartment opened. His heart skipped a beat the panic only lasted a moment.

“It’s me! Don’t freak out!” Beverly called down the hall. She came in wearing jeans and a dark blue t-shirt, hot coffee in her hands. “ _You_ look tired.” Her eyes scanned him, and then the apartment briefly. She was hardly bothered by the sight of him in boxers at this point, but her eyes caught over the new scratch post, swiveling to a bag of cat food on the floor near the foot of a barstool before finally settling wide-eyed creature staring at her from under the coffee table. “Will Graham, did _you_ bring home a cat?”

“Good morning, Beverly.” He replied, honestly surprised. He’d made her the key to help out with the occasional stray dog Will brought home, though there weren’t too many in New York City, or at least not in the areas Will usually found himself. She’d never used it without calling first. “Sort of. It was a favor. What’s the occasion?” He asked, putting the skillet in the oven.

Beverly kneeled down and made a _ttttt-ttt_ sound in the cat’s direction, hand extended. Will was on the verge of telling her not to bother when it’s head popped out from under the table and it slowly approached her, it’s tail pointed straight back, almost parallel to its spine.

“She’s a sweetheart,” Beverly said, clearly pleased, as the cat sniffed at her hand. “What’s her name?”

He paused. They’d forgotten to name her, despite mentioning it several times, but he was good at naming animals. He looked black cat, nervously rubbing a cheek against Beverly’s hand, watching her carefully.

“Wynn.” He decided. “She likes you—she’s been watching me from a distance all evening like _I’m_ new here or something.”

Beverly scoffed, and the oven timer went off. The cat ran back under the table, startled, and Beverly straightened up.

“I thought I smelt something.” . Will could cook, of course, but rarely went beyond the effort eggs and bacon in the morning, generally resigned to toast or cereal if he ate at all. “What is that?” she asked, watching him pull the skillet out of the oven and set it to cool.

“It’s, uh—nothing. Abigail was over last night, her friend showed her the recipe and she wanted me to try it.” He replied.

“How is she?”

“She’s good, she’s uh, trying to pick a major right now. Looking into psychology.”

“She’s not having issues anymore?”

“She is as normal as either of us can hope to be. I think it’s been easier now that she’s had a semester to adjust. I don’t know if psychology is the right major for her, but she’ll figure it out.”

Beverly gave a slight nod. Truth be told, she didn’t know Abigail well--her concern was genuine, but more of an extension of her concern for Will than anything. She had a two siblings he knew of, a sister five years her senior and a brother still in high school.

“So, uh, you doing anything today?” Her tone was too casual; he knew what was coming before she asked.

“I was gonna straighten up the apartment, take the cat to a vet to get looked at, nothing committal.” He grabbed a fork, the small cast iron pan held in a still-gloved hand as he poked at the food, steam rising from the eggs.

“Good. You have a date tonight.”

Will choked on a mouthful of eggs, bits of food fighting to pick a direction in his throat. His heart lurched with horror in his chest, and Beverly smacked at his back hard as he coughed before momentarily abandoning him to get him some water.

“I was hoping you might take it better than _that_ . The date’s not with _me_ after all.”

Will gulps down the water and tried to recapture a succinct train of thought to reply. For several moments, he failed, and Beverly waited impatiently for a verbal acceptance of his fate.

“ _Why_ , exactly, do I have a date tonight?” He finally managed.

“Because I have a friend who doesn't scare easy and she asked me if I knew anyone.” Beverly replied coolly. “Now c’mon and finish your breakfast, this apartment isn’t going to clean itself.”

* * *

At the veterinarian’s office, Wynn was scanned for a microchip to no avail, and looked over and put into the system as Will’s cat. The people at the office knew him well for bringing in dogs for look-overs and were surprised to see him today with Wynn, loudly mewling from the small kennel in his arms. Most of the vet’s observations were to be expected; she likely had worms and was recovering from anemia (no doubt caused by a long-term flea infestation) as well as malnourishment and dehydration. Will mentioned the name of the brand he’d selected the night before and the vet nodded in approval, looking impressed but unsurprised when Will inquired what he might put in homemade meals for her. The veterinarian assistant walked him through some of the major differences between cats and dogs and tried as best as she could to prepare him for the different needs cats have.

“There’s a stereotype about cats; that they’re mean, aloof, don’t do well with strangers. In my experience, these things all depend on the cat and its owner, same as any dog. Most cats take a few weeks to adjust to a home, and anywhere between a few days and a couple months to adjust to a new owner. If you’re patient and respectful, she will be, too.”

This was reassuring. Most dogs took to him fairly quickly and if the past twelve hours had been any indication, Wynn’s attachment to him was entirely survival based.

Beverly filled him in on a little information about his blind date while they were sitting in the waiting room, Will grinding his teeth together without realizing it. He was developing a habit of carrying his tension in his jaw almost as much as his shoulders. He’d have to get a mouth guard soon if he wasn’t careful.

“She’s smart,” Beverly told him. “Not too tall, got really pretty eyes. She’s blunt, I’ll tell you now. You’re supposed to meet her near the founding fathers at Central Park. You can take a walk, get a snack outside the Met, see some exhibits...”

Will wasn’t feeling up to the date if he was being honest. He wanted to go back to his apartment and watch a movie with Beverly or check on his sister, who hadn’t texted him back yet.

“You have to stay at the apartment and watch the cat. I haven’t left her alone before, I don’t think she’s used to the apartment yet,”

“What if the date goes well?” Beverly asked, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

“I’ll text you.” He replied dubiously.

It was 3:30 when he got to the Hamilton monument at Central Park--he had _just_ missed the train and had to wait ten minutes to catch the next, and he was fifteen minutes past the agreed upon 3:15 meeting time. She was still there, though, her hair like curls of fire licking just past her shoulders, head bowed as she typed rapidly into her phone. She looked up and spotted him--he thought she looked a little familiar, but he couldn’t place her, and as they approached each other he was unsurprised to see the green of her irises.

“Will, I presume?” Her voice was flat and hinted at the straightforwardness Beverly had mentioned. She didn’t look pleased to see him, but neither did she look upset about his tardiness. In fact, she more or less wore the expression of a person who had a friend’s plate mistaken for her own by waitstaff at dinner. “I’m Freddie,” she held out her hand and he shook it.

“Yeah, sorry I’m late. Didn’t leave on time.”

“It’s uh, no problem. I think maybe there was a mix up with Bev, though.”

“A mix-up?”

“I’m a lesbian.”

 _Oh, not this again_.

“Oh.” There was a long beat of tension and then Will laughed, his eyes set on a stray orange curl on her forehead.

“Well, no use getting fussy about it now. We can still take a walk. There’s this temporary exhibit at the Met right now that I’ve been wanting to see--c’mon.”

Freddy, it seemed, didn’t believe in missed opportunities, and despite her obvious disinterest in him romantically speaking, seemed fully intent on getting to know him, a fact he might’ve appreciated if he didn’t dislike speaking about himself, something she seemed to pick up on quickly, and her questions shifted from personal to provincial rather quickly.

The Met was crowded and overflowing with tourists, and the sudden shift from the city’s chill to the museum’s body heat was a bit stifling. They lost each other in the foyer almost immediately after buying tickets, and Will, with no number to contact her with, could do nothing but stand near one of the benches on the left hand side of the foyer and scan the crowd for her, feeling with waning confidence that the combination of her conspicuous hair and emerald green sweater might compensate for her small stature and frame. It made no reappearance. He pondered momentarily whether or not he should go home, but then he’d already bought his ticket, the white and blue entry sticker over his left breast a reminder that it was only good today, and only for a bit longer.

He’d only visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art once since he’d moved to New York City, more at the behest of Abigail than his own, through the main entrance. Today they’d come in through the West entrance from the park, and he was essentially lost. He wandered blindly through European Sculpture and Decorative Arts, moved silently by the detail of the marble and bronze sculptures in particular.

The section was huge, and he wandered through it with the vague sense that he was becoming more lost. He was totally unfamiliar with this section of the museum, Abigail having led them through the sections on Egyptian and American Art on the fist floor before making it halfway through the European paintings, which had admittedly caught his eye.

It was 4:45 when he finally surfaced in the Greco-Roman Art. He was poorly versed in Greco-Roman history and while the meaning of many images was lost on him, he was no less moved by the detail in the ancient pieces, though he wished he’d bought an audio guide for the tour, if not only for the extra information but the security of looking occupied, a pang of loss he felt even further when he caught a figure approaching him out of the corner of his eye.

He tensed up, refusing to turn away from the sculpture of the three graces in front of him even as the figure paused pointedly by his side.

“Will, isn’t it?”

He threw a short look at the man standing too closely to his left. He was a bit shorter than Will, with dark brown hair swept cleanly to his right-hand side. He was wearing a white striped dress shirt and an orange pattern tie with charcoal pants, a brilliant mahogany cane in his hand. This close, he smelt of polished wood and sweat, a look of recognition on his face. He _was_ familiar, actually, but Will was having difficulty placing exactly why.

“Uh, yeah. I--”

“Doctor Frederick Chilton,” the man supplied, reading the surprise in his face. He offered his hand and after a reluctant pause, Will took it. His hands were clammy and cool and made the experience more unpleasant. _Frederick Chilton. Freddy. So the universe_ **_does_ ** _have a sense of humor._

“Ah, yeah--sable and black eye.” Will recited the order almost mechanically, as if in front of a register and not an ancient statue of the three graces, standing together, headless. The sable bagel was a common order though customers calling for a black eye (brewed coffee and a shot of espresso) were less common. He allowed himself to turn to face the man a bit, if only by a fraction, to acknowledge him properly. “You haven’t been in for a while.”

“Yes. I’ve had to cut back on high protein meals, and it wouldn’t do to offer temptation to myself--your shop is rather tempting.” He spoke a bit oddly, with a vague sense of superiority, as if he were speaking in defense of a close colleague and not himself, his chin raised out ever so slightly, and yet despite this clear sense of superiority Will couldn’t shake the feeling he might be hinting at a temptation other than the shop. Will shifted a bit uncomfortably; Beverly had implied his interests were in more than the breakfast and coffee they served, but, of course, Will had brushed it off, until now. “Enjoying the art?”

“Uh, yeah. Just sort of been wandering around the museum.”

“Mmm, as have I. It’s rare I get an afternoon to browse so freely through the city, even the mob of tourists couldn’t stop me. Work usually keeps me at bay during the week, and yet here I am. What brought you here?”

Will had the sudden feeling that he was being evaluated, that his answers were being cataloged and registered for later judgment or approval. It was not terribly unlike the quality he had noticed in Hannibal, but the implementation was entirely different; Hannibal was a man digging cautiously for artifacts of artistry in character, Frederick Chilton was sifting dirt for gold, or perhaps more acutely, examining antiques for imperfection and value. Alana had a quality akin to this herself, but it felt more to Will’s brain like polishing silver; reinstilling the value she knew or assumed was already in existence beneath. It must be a psychiatrist thing. He couldn’t say he was thrilled by the concept; his friendship with Alana had been formed despite the quality, and because of her careful refrain from looking through a lens at him, though he thought she’d been tempted. His experience with Hannibal was the same; threads of friendship formed through likeness and compliments of character with wary distrust for the psychiatrist behind the friend. It was perhaps too soon to say, but Will felt the same exceptions would not be made for Chilton. He could be jumping to conclusions, though, he had no idea of Chilton was a doctor of medicine or psychology.

“I was with someone. Couldn’t say where she is _now,_ but she’s how I got here.” Will replied honestly.

Other people were standing around them near the statue. He moved to another, a damaged full body marble sculpture of Hercules. Chilton followed though at the very least he didn’t hover.

“A bad date?” Chilton asked.

“Something like that.” Will admitted, “Are you a doctor of psychiatry or physiology, Frederick?”

“Psychiatry, in fact. I am the head administrator of the psychiatric ward at pick a nice hospital, Does it show?”

Will could see the pride brimming in the explanation and could read the answer he hoped for easily on his face. He decided to indulge him.

“I, uh, seem to find myself in the company of psychiatrists quite often lately. Seems the job attracts a lot of them.” _Funny, since I quit school to get away from them_.

“Is that so? How peculiar. But then again, your little place has been getting a lot of attention lately, and it’s hardly a surprise people would be interested in _you_. You have a knack for catching the eye.”  

Will shifted uncomfortably. He suddenly couldn’t tell if Chilton’s interested lied in _him_ or his brain--neither of which made him very comfortable.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Any notable figures?”

“Uh. Just a couple whose names have stuck with me. Is it that small of a community? I know an Alana Bloom in Virginia who lectures in the city sometimes, and a Hannibal Lecter with a practice nearby.”

Chilton nodded, his reaction well cloistered.

“Perhaps, then, you could allow me to make reparations for her disappearance? The museum is closing soon. I know a nice restaurant nearby.” He spoke with a self-assurance Will suspected was likely a front; he was a squirmy man, underneath this presentation if Will’s gut were to be believed. But it might do well to give Abigail another contact if the lunch went well, and it certainly sounded as though the man had connections. Dinner meant socializing, but he was already out for the evening, and that hardly felt like a decent excuse. And, well, despite himself, Will’s interest was piqued by the clear mask of emotions Chilton had put on upon hearing he knew Alana and Hannibal--he’d known Alana for a while, and hardly felt as though Chilton could have anything against her other than a professional rivalry, she was hardly the kind of woman to attract any sort of controversy. Hannibal seemed so well put together that it was neither reassuring nor was it necessarily suspicious. So Will found himself agreeing, his hesitation sliding behind his own cleverly crafted skin as a false comradery took over, leaving him at a distance from the situation, as if he were in a deeper part of himself, arching someone else speak and move for him.

The restraunt they settled at was nicer than Will had expected, and he felt self-conscious, sitting across from Chilton in his rumpled clothes. Date-worthy clothes, so not...horrible, really, but not quite up to speed with the atmosphere of the restaurant. Chilton was more than happy to speak for most of the evening, proving himself to be a man built more of ambition than of substance. Will nodded along, the occasional conversational nod or sarcastic mark intermingling in the conversation, but not unsettling Chilton light he might have otherwise. He ordered a scotch for added confidence when he felt himself slipping back into his skin, and was successfully reprimanded. When the moment arrived to ask his own questions, he was more than ready.

“For a man so accomplished in his field,” Will allowed the uncharacteristic charming flattery carry him forward. “You shuttered up pretty fast when I mentioned Alana and Hannibal.”

Chilton paused, his fork in a half eaten quiche, his face less obscured now than it had been at the museum.

“Ah, yes. I wondered if you might bring that up again,’ Chilton replied coolly. “I did not wish to speak out of turn,” If that was true (and Will doubted it was), his hesitation was well hidden; he spoke in a crisp and sure tone that reminded Will of old women gabbing over bingo, resentfully gossiping about the nursing staff.

“It’s difficult to imagine either of them in the middle of any sort of controversy.” Will replied dismissively. Chilton was not particularly difficult to manipulate, prone to exaggeration and gossip but otherwise no less honest for it, and like all gossips, he was easily prodded for information.

“Your missus Bloom is good enough in her field,” Chilton allowed starchily. “And is gaining attention, for _sure_ . As for Hannibal Lecter...well, he's got a name in psychiatry that proceeds him. His papers have relieved general success among the community, and he runs a... _fairly_ successful practice,” Chilton speaks with a vague respectful disdain.

_Is that it? Professional envy? What a waste._

“You’re speaking very politely for someone who just a second ago was worried about speaking out of turn.” Will said, almost an accusation. “Is there a-”

“My distaste for Hannibal’s character comes exactly from his achievements, or rather, his presentation of them. He performs as if it were nothing, beyond the respectful humility, he simply _is_.” Chilton said spitefully. The shift was natural one; as if he were sliding out of a skin and right into the next, all at once. “Doctor Bloom is all words. Her approach to psychiatry is too removed, too logical for practical application...in my opinion. What’s more, they had quite the affair.” his animosity was recon gained by the end of his statement, replace with a demeanor that was almost democratic.

 _This_ Will had not been expecting. Could he have been wrong about Hannibal this entire time? But then, why hadn’t Hannibal corrected him? And what of that moment, in the kitchen, just before Abigail’s arrival? Could he have imagined it? Even more, could he have _initiated_ it? Was Will projecting--

No. _Probably_ not. People can prefer more than one thing, of _course_ , as Alana could surely testify. Still, it was a bit jarring to hear.

“What exactly does that mean?” Will replied finally.

Chilton could tell the news had surprised him, and Will had to give him credit for not being oblivious. He was still trying to impress Will, and so he’d tell him, even if he didn’t care to.

“He was mentoring her.” Chilton explained as if that were all the answer required.

“Is that...?”

“It’s not strictly forbidden, no. But neither is it appropriate, especially for a therapist of Hannibal’s standing and a student. Raised all sorts of eyebrows, you can imagine. Questions were raised of improprieties, was Hannibal using his influence to give her a leg up above her peers? And of course, Miss Bloom became _very_ defensive and Hannibal remained demure and calm as always though I could see the twinkle of irritation in his eyes whenever the topic came up. Once the news was out, the relationship fell apart, as they are wont to do.”

“Do you think it’s true?”

“Do I think Hannibal gave Alana Bloom a leg up in psychiatry?” Chilton pushed his food around on his plate and then took a sip of his drink. “It’s as likely as it is not.”

* * *

 

Will went home alone (as planned), and found Beverly lying across the couch, the cat perched near her on the side of the couch, staring at him wide-eyed as he came in.

“How’d it go?” She asked after a minute passed, the tv filling the silence in the room.

“Not great.”

“What? What went wrong?”

He sighed and leaned back against the counter. 

“Did you, by chance, happen to ask Freddie what kind of person she was looking for before you set us up? You know, did you _tell_ her anything about me?"

"A little. I told her you were cool and that you were single." She asked, clearly waiting for him to make a point. "Why? What happened?"

"Did you happen to mention that I'm a man?"

" _What_? Will, what are you talking about?" Her patience was wearing thin.

"I get on the subway, make my way to and through central park, I get there you know, and I'm feeling bad because I missed the first train and now I'm late. But I spot her quickly enough--she's come into work before, hasn't she? I walk up to her, introduce myself and apologize and--guess what? Doesn't matter because we've got bigger differences. Like, for instances, that she's a lesbian."

" _What?_ Will what the hell are you talking about?" Beverly sat up on the couch and the cat hopped down to sit where her she had been laying. 

"Yeah, it uh, seems like I was  _not_ the date she was expecting."

"Will, Freddie's not--oh god," Beverly sighed, a realization coming upon her. "Oh, god, I n--"

"Wait--she's  _not_?"

"Oh, god. What happened after that?"

"She disappeared in the museum." His head was starting to ache again.  _Who does that_? "I'm going to bed, Bev. You can stay if you want to."

 

“Yeah...alright,” she said in a way that made it clear this conversation was not over. Whatever. He doubted he’d feel like talking about it anymore in the morning, but she as welcome to try.

He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and washed his mouth out with Listerine, and then went to his room where he tugged off his pants and fell into bed. He was struggling with the ability to close his eyes. Every time he tried, pictures from the ‘date’ with Chilton ran through his mind and had to push them away again. He caught himself clenching his jaw several times and could feel the tension building in the muscles around his mandibular joint on the left side. His breath was minty and clean, and it helped. Chilton had kissed him at the end of the night, a surprising, unwanted kiss before parting, awkward and unpleasant and yet, clarifying. He ran the back of his hand across his mouth subconsciously for the hundredth time that night, as if he could wipe the event from the history of his body and start new, free of the experience. He searched in vain for a pair Advil PM in his bedside table but didn't get up to check the bathroom or kitchen for the bottle. It was only eight thirty, and it was going to take him hours to go to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait! I've been going through some personal stuff and also, lucky me! My laptop is now in need of expensive repair and I'm trying to figure out how to pay for it right now. I'm relying on my ipad and my mom's laptop to write, which is why this chapter took so long.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait!!! It's this laptop issue + attempting to have a life + i read a lot  
> These coming weeks having access to a computer is either going to be much easier or much harder, so fingers crossed! I love you guys, thank you so much for waiting!

“Beverly warned me this would happen,” Will said, readjusting the lapels of his suit jacket. “I should’ve stalled for longer after work.”

“Then you’d just make us late,” Abigail laughed, standing next to him and examining his reflection in the mirror. “Besides, I don’t know what you expected, answering the door in your _work_ clothes.” She frowned critically at his replica in the mirror. “I like everything but the shirt. I’ll tell Hannibal to pick out another.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Will asked defensively. It was the only part of the outfit he’d picked out.

“What _isn’t?_ It’s the color of dying grass.” She smiled indulgently at him. “Look, you go back in the dressing room, try on the white one, and I’ll be back with one or two others. The sooner you’re done the sooner we can go home.”

Will sighed and shuffled back into the stall as Abigail went out to search for another shirt. He fished his phone out of the rumpled pants on the bench of the dressing room, piled like dirty laundry in a teenager’s room with the rest of his clothes. No notifications, although the bright square numbers on his phone reminded him that they needed to head home in less than an hour if they were aiming for punctuality. He shrugged off the suit jacket and returned it to the hangar before unbuttoning and shrugging out of the green shirt and into the white when a gentle knock came from the other side of the door, followed by a low, even voice.

“Will?”

He turned and opened the door to Hannibal, who, unlike Will or Abigail, was already dressed and groomed for the evening. His hair was neatly parted and combed back, wearing a deep blue suit with a tailored fit. He surveyed Will’s clothes, the dark slate-grey pants and think black belt, the white shirt half buttoned not yet tucked in and then offered a crisply folded salmon colored shirt likely passed along from Abigail.

“Thanks,”

Hannibal nodded politely and Will shut the door and tried the white shirt in the dressing room mirror. Will didn’t really like wearing white, as he’d tried to say when the shirt had been pressed into his hands by their sales associate. He tried the salmon shirt next and stepped out, the wool suit jacket back on his shoulders. Abigail and Hannibal regarded him with approval.

“I _have_ a shirt this color.” Will observed in the mirror. It was a different style, less classy and often outfitted for fishing ventures. “The fit is a little snug.”

“Is it? It’s not your usual size, but I think you’ve lost some weight lately. Or maybe it’s just how you’ve been wearing your clothes? This fit suits you better, right, Hannibal?” Will watched her smile turn to Hannibal in the mirror. Hannibal’s face was contemplative and hard to read, but he didn’t hesitate before replying.

“I agree. It’s fit is snug by comparison but not without, I think I’d prefer it to a size up. I think your earlier inclination against a tie fits quite well with this selection as well.” he said, his voice warm and pleased as Will met his eyes in the mirror.

Will turned to face them.

“Should I wear it home?”

“Will, you smell like a giant coffee bagel.” Abigail said cryptically. “You need a shower.”

Will laughed and nodded. To be honest, he’d been so lost in the afternoon--the three of them browsing place to place before stopping in to find Will some clothes, the ultimate point of the evening, he’d forgotten he’d even gone to work that morning. He felt as though he was in an alternate reality, the contrast of Hannibal’s company as an addition to his and Abigail’s enough to offset his normal life without stepping so away from it he was uncomfortable.

Will changed back into his work clothes and met Abigail and Hannibal outside after he paid. They were in the middle of a joke when he came outside, Abigail her hands in her pockets, beams of space running through the clouds across their faces, and he was struck, once again, by a strange feeling of being totally at ease.

They returned to the apartment shortly after, Abigail heading straight to the bedroom to change and Will to the bathroom to take a shower.  Will felt almost bad, abandoning Hannibal in his living room alone, or he would have if Hannibal had not been so insistent about joining them beforehand in the first place.

Will parted his hair off to the right with a comb in the mirror after toweling off, brushing it back out of his forehead to prevent it from dancing its normal mess. He hadn’t gone so far as to promise Abigail he’d look nice, but he knew it was important to her, and Hannibal was really starting to grow on him; he’d do better not to disappoint or embarrass  either of them.

From the bathroom he switched with Abigail, going into his room to pull one of his finer pairs of shoes from the top shelf of his closet along with socks from a drawer while Abigail adjusted her hair in the bathroom.

Abigail was not shy with enthusiasm at the sight of Hannibal’s black Bentley sitting out in front of the apartment on the curb, looking newly washed. The drive to Hannibal’s home was a little over forty minutes, which was making good time considering his apartment was on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Will had known, had assumed Hannibal was well off from his clothes, his attitude and, of course, his outright confession of such, but he hadn’t quite realized what that meant until he stepped into the lobby of One Carnegie Hill after being greeted by a doorman, the room more adorned in the manner of a five star hotel than an apartment building, in Will’s opinion.

Hannibal’s apartment was on the thirty-third floor, a corner apartment amongst at least a few others on the floor from what Will could tell. The apartment itself opened into a small entry foyer that opened to the left, where access to the bathroom and what was likely the master bedroom were to the immediately left (the door to the latter’s was closed), a guest room, door closed, ahead, and to the right the hallway continued past a sliding door closet and a small door (Will suspected this was a small pantry). From there, the hallway immediately opened directly into the living room, which allowed open access to the kitchen and dining room to the left. The along the dining room wall small, well-nourished herbs had been grown in planters integrated like shelves along the wall. The

dining table was long and elegant, a deep walnut shade, ornate and finely crafted. In the living room was a long, black leather couch and two arm chairs on either side situated around a coffee table over a maroon rug. The kitchen had granite counters and cabinets that matched the dining table’s wood and a stainless steel fridge.

Coming in, they were immediately accosted by a thick, mouth-watering smell, like spices and clay, if Will’s delicate sense of smell could be trusted. He closed his eyes when he came to the entrance to the kitchen, bathing in the smell as his stomach rumbled hollowly.

“Have you been cooking, Doctor Lecter?” He asked with a slow, breath voice as he exhaled. “Or molding pottery?”

Hannibal gave him an approving glance as he moved past him into the kitchen, pulling the door open and using a hand towel to pull the top rack of the oven out and reveal their meal, which, at this moment, appeared to be two very large grey lumps.

“Beggar’s chicken,” Will named, surprising even himself. “How do I know that?” Next to him, Abigail’s face was thoughtful and, underneath that, impressed.

"Do you remember the particularities of this particular meal?” Hannibal inquired patiently.

“There was a man,” Abigail interjected, surprising them both, her eyebrows furrowed and her gaze was contemplative and distant as she recounted the story. “There are a...few different stories. A beggar starving during the Qing Dynasty in China, so desperate for food that he steals a chicken from a farm nearby. The farmer notices the chicken missing after the beggar’s killed it, and he panics and buries it in the mud. He didn’t have anything to cook it on when he dug it up again, so he threw the entire thing, mud and all, onto the fire. When he cracks it open the smell is so delicious and so strong the farmer smells it, and they eat it together. Jiao Hua Ji.” She looked at Will as she rose from her trance. “It was on my study guide for Eastern Culture; you helped me get ready for the exam.”

Hannibal’s eyes glinted with a smile, his lips only slightly upturned as he straightened and closed the oven before adjusting the temperature.

“Hannibal’s requirements for a positive impression are lofty at best,” Will warned lightly, raising an eyebrow at Abigail. “His idea of friendship is more akin to a sphynx than a person; he makes you suffer for it.”

“Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened,” Hannibal replied smoothly.

“That’s Helen Keller, isn’t it?” Abigail asked.

“Indeed it is,” Hannibal said, seeming all the more delighted. “See, dear Will? You give yourselves too little credit.”

“When do the guests start arriving?” Will asked, changing the subject.

Fairly soon, as it turned out. Within ten minutes of setting the table, selecting a record and a wine for dinner and for desert, knocks began at the door. They had set five place settings for the remainder of Hannibal’s guests, leaving space at the center of Hannibal’s broad dining room table for the extravagant meal that Hannibal was finishing in the kitchen. Along the table they set plates of fruit, roasted marrow (which Hannibal prepared after their arrival) and Roman cauliflower, bright green and lush, studded with purple cauliflower on a base of green and purple lettuce and a small concentration of carrots cut thin and flat, all of which were placed on the table before the arrival of the other guests. Two large, round plates decorated lushly with pink lady apples and lemon yellow grapes with halved and hollow bone marrow were set aside for the chickens. The table looked elegant and inviting, and in its splendor, to Will was both intimidating and thrilling. The record Hannibal had selected was another classical one, and as the music drifted through the dining room, Will found himself lost in the view of the city outside from the window in the dining room  as night settled in around them.

Alana had been invited, as it turned out, as a special treat. She had come to the city for a surprise guest lecture at NYU, and Hannibal, savvy as ever, had asked her to keep the trip quiet so as to be a surprise when she arrived at the apartment. Will, being the least busy preparing for dinner, went to answer the door.

“Margot couldn’t make it?” Will asked, sharing a smile with her as she released him from a hug. “

“Couldn’t get away from work. She’s still overturning and undoing a lot of the damage her brother did before he was arrested.” She replied.

Margot’s older brother, Will knew, had inherited the business after the passing of their father about half a decade past. He wasn’t entirely clear about the details of his crimes, but knew that he was currently awaiting trial and that, so that he might circumvent the criminal justice system (which was preventing him from accessing his funds) he had given control of the family company and wealth to Margot, who was now refusing to help him.

“And you must be Abigail,” Alana said, turning her charm towards Abigail, who was rounding the corner to see who had come to the door. Abigail smiled nervously and went to her and they shook hands. Alana possessed a charming ease so inherent to her demeanor that any tension Abigail’s nerves might have brought seemed halved.

“Yeah,” Abigail nodded. “Mrs. Bloom, I--”

“We’ve talked about this, Abigail,” Alana corrected immediately as they moved further into the apartment. “We’ve talked enough you should be comfortable using my first name by now. Do you call Hannibal by _his_ last name?”

“Well, no, but I--”

“There you have it,” Alana interrupted, her face kind. “He’s _much_ scarier than I am. If you can use his first name, you can use mine.”

Rounding into the kitchen, Hannibal put down the wine glasses he was carefully selecting for the table and went to great the new guest. They were clearly very familiar with each other though Will sensed none of the awkwardness that often arose between ex-lovers. Whether this was because Chilton had lied, or otherwise been wrong in his recollection, or that the two had simply long since recovered from the incident was impossible to tell.

The remainder of the guests arrived promptly after, Hannibal making time to answer the door after Alana’s arrival so that Will met two more psychiatrists,  a surgeon,  and an opera singer accompanied by her girlfriend, whose name and profession Will didn’t catch. Hannibal, for his part, introduced Will not by his profession, but simply as his _close friend._ Will wasn’t sure how he felt about this; why invite him if he was too embarrassing to even introduce properly? But it went a long way from ruining the evening; on the contrary, things seemed to go surprisingly well. Hannibal was clearly in his element, chatting up each of his guests with a different and personal alternation with each person, and any reservations he might’ve had about Hannibal’s intimidating stature and general manner affecting his therapy were essentially diminished. At the table, Hannibal cracked the clay he had backed the chickens in and a brilliant smell was unleashed upon the small dinner party. Beneath the clay, the chickens were wrapped delicately in dried lotus leaves, which Hannibal cut through and laid aside. Watching Hannibal take his seat at the head of the table, Will couldn’t help but see the appeal in the elaborately put together night as Hannibal raised a glass of wine and announced;

“Prometheus fashioned man out of clay and gave him fire. We come from clay, return to clay.”

The food was just as delicious as it initially appeared, the chicken succulent and flavorful, the marrow, which Will had never eaten before, was a pleasant new introduction to his palette,  and the wine was a deep red that went smoothly across his tongue as he drank. With Chopin playing tastefully in the background as the guests spoke in soft melodies about their lives, dancing about topics such as the latest studies in psychiatry, the appointment of a new principal flutist in the New York Philharmonic Symphonic Orchestra, and the controversial movement of a rather popular (and yet apparently scandalously sexist statue) called _Civic Virtue_ from Kew Gardens in Queens into Greenwood cemetery, which of course was in Brooklyn, where it was hoped it might be admired without being so much in the public eye. Hannibal’s guests also made several attempts to steer the conversation towards Will and Abigail, the latter of whom was slightly more obliged and more able to conduct these portions of the talk. This could hardly be helped, as it seemed that all of the other guests were fairly well acquainted with each other (and no doubt wondering what Will, whom they had to have guessed by now was of no professional significance). More than once Will thought he caught the man sitting to Hannibal’s left, the surgeon who’s name might’ve started with an S, if he could only remember, attempting to determine Will’s **significance**. It was less of a surprise, then, when later after dessert, when guests concluded the night with small glasses of expensive scotch, Will overheard the same man speaking in low tones with the opera singer’s girlfriend, their eyes heavy on him in between bursts of conversation.

“So, what do you think?” Alana asked, her smile bright and dazzling, cheeks slightly pinker from wine. “Hannibal’s little dinner parties can be kind of overwhelming the first time around.”

“It’s interesting,” Will admitted, “To see how the other half lives. I think I prefer my own side, though. I enjoy your company, and Hannibal’s, but I don’t think the guests will miss any more than I’ll miss them at the next one.”

“You think? Looks to me like they’re pretty entranced with you,” Alana said, a gleam in her eye, her voice floaty and light without losing any of the meaning she was imbibing in her words. “Not that we aren’t Hannibal’s friends, but...it’s not often Hannibal invites a new guest purely for their company, let alone two. I would miss your company, and I think he would, too.”

There was something suggestive in her tone, but he pretended he didn’t hear it, his eyes drifting around the room, catching sight of Hannibal at the end of the hall speaking with the one of the psychiatrists. His eyes lingered for only a moment, and then Alana was speaking again, and he turned back to look at her, his eyes fixing on her cheekbones rather than meeting her gaze. “To be honest, when you first mentioned you knew him, I didn’t think you meant you were close,” her tone was friendly, more serious than before, but leading. He wondered if this was the tone she took with patients who were reluctant to speak with her in sessions, but the second the thought flitted through his mind he knew that it was true; he could see it clearly in his head; Alana, sitting in a nice, carefully decorated office, the walls painted in gentle shade of easter blue and unintimidating,  muted furniture that was just as comfortable as it was attractive. Alana, sitting in a chair with her fingers interlocked in her lap as she leaned forward and gently coaxed people into speaking. Why, exactly, the tone had been turned on for their conversation however, he couldn’t tell.  Was it concern? Friendly curiosity? “But it seems like you two know each other really well. How long have you two known each other?”

“A few months,” Will responded, after a pause. “Not much beyond the occasional conversation here and there until recently, more out of circumstance than anything.” He said honestly. The first conversation they had without a coffee bar between them had, after all, been when he had burned his hand. He wondered if his friendship with Hannibal seemed as odd to Alana as it did to the rest of the guests, polite though they were about it. Alana was his friend, after all, and yet, she’d been Hannibal’s first, been mentored by him, and clearly held him in high regard.

“You’re a good match for each other,” she said thoughtfully, as if reading his mind. His eyes met hers for a second as she said it, and he could see immediately that she was being genuine, that her questions and comments came entirely from a place of curiosity and comity. “I don’t know that it would have occurred to me if I hadn’t seen the two of you at dinner--”

“Wait--what about dinner?” Will interrupted, taken aback.

“The way you guys talk to each other, it's like you're on a wavelength only you two can hear,” She replied. “Even when you’re disagreeing. There’s a dance going on there, with the two of you,”

Will, who had felt the dinner conversation had been pleasant but uneventful, was startled to hear this, but not wholly surprised by the sentiment now leaking into her words.

“We’re not a couple, Alana.”

“Really?” She didn't hide the glimmer of surprise in her voice, but it was charming, nonetheless. “Are you and Hannibal just friends?” She didn't accusatory, or shocked, though the leading tone had not subsided from it.

“We’re--he’s different. There’s something about him--maybe it’s _everything_ about him--that’s not like other people.” He said it with a grimace of a smile, the words flowing out of him without a real direction. “I wasn’t sure about him at first, but he’s, uh,” he tried to think of the right words. “It’s like, I _sort_ of get him, but I sort of don’t, too. He was the one that was determined on being friends, on getting to know Abigail and helping her out. And from anyone else I think I’d feel sort of...patronized, but it doesn’t usually seem that way coming from him. He’s caught my attention.” He concluded, finally. He had surprised himself by saying so much, especially when he hadn’t shared these thoughts with Beverly or Abigail, despite the fact that the jokes, innuendos, and occasional probing questions had essentially ceased the past few weeks; so had the demure, carefully spoken flirtations that had come to be a part of his normal interactions with Hannibal. And it had taken him some time to realize it, and it seemed, only until now, standing and talking with Alana, knowing that she was nor were any of the guests the reason for Hannibal’s change in behavior, that he could admit to himself that, after all of his protests, he missed it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will gets sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, as always, for the wait! I'm working now! Which means that I'm having a _tiny_ bit more trouble finding time to write between that and homework and a social life.  
>  I'm not sure how much longer this fic is going to turn out to be, but if anyone would be interested in being a beta for me, I'd really fuckin' appreciate it I'm such a mess. If that's a think you're interested in, you can contact me [here](http://ourdeathswillstopnothing.tumblr.com).  
> I hope you enjoy the chapter!

“He must see something in you, Will. Can’t say I’m surprised, he’s not the first one.” 

Will gave her a teasingly incredulous look.

“Are you flirting with me?” He quirked an eyebrow and she laughed, not shying from the accusation. She brushed her hair behind her left ear and shook it behind her shoulder: it’s long and glossy waves cascading beautifully, spark shining in her eye. She was beautiful in an unquestionably feminine way. She was shorter than him, even in her heels, where Hannibal was slightly taller, narrow-bodied where Hannibal was slim but broad shouldered, she was beautiful whereas Hannibal was...handsome, unquestionably handsome, in an unorthodox and entrancing way. Will took another sip from his drink, the bitter taste rolling across his tongue and decided: maybe there was no use in comparing them. 

“Are you trying to change the subject?” She replied, still smiling, but growing more serious all the same. “When you called me before, Will, to ask me about my opinion about Hannibal, what was the real reason? Was it just Abigail?”

“Was what just me?” Abigail asked, suddenly appearing by Will’s side, effectively ending the conversation--and not a moment too soon, in Will’s opinion. There was a temptation to take more of the advice Alana was no doubt planning to offer, and as she clearly knew more in the ways of divergent sexualities than he did, it would have been helpful to hear her out. But Will wasn’t quite ready for that yet; while he could come to terms with what he was feeling, he had said all he could, for now, for in fact it seemed almost vulgar to propose a conversation about the relationship he was still cultivating with Hannibal, who had shared already so much of himself and taken so little in return. It felt like saying anymore would have been a betrayal of the thing forming, which was only for them to understand (not that Will actually understood it). Besides this, a headache had nudged its way to the forefront of his skull, and, having already had more than a few glasses of wine and liquor, he knew he was passed the point of taking a pill for it. 

Still, he did his best to avoid withdrawing from the party, knowing the night was nearly at its end he need only maintain appearances for the better part of an hour before he’d be in a taxi headed back to Brooklyn--with any luck, his headache might have subsided by then anyways.

Predictably, however, the end of the hour came and went and he found himself feeling only iller. By this point, his condition had not, as he had hoped, slackened or gone unnoticed. In fact, he had apparently developed a distinct pallor that had been commented upon several times until finally, Hannibal, who had already offered to leave the apartment in Alana’s charge (further indication of deeper ties than indicated by the two, though he now felt less threatened by them) and personally drive him home, insisted he laid down in the guest room. Abigail corroborated his concern, her eyebrows knitted with concern as she searched his face and attempted to gauge the seriousness of his headache, which was bordering on, but had not quite toppled into, migraine territory. 

He did not take in any of the trappings or decorations of the guest room as he was ushered in, a dull ache settling over his body.  He had been slightly affected with vertigo on the way to the bedroom, and did his very best not to show it and seem drunker than he was, which was very little. Hannibal left him a glass of water on the bedside table and told him to rest his eyes. He initially had no intention of doing this, but upon laying down on the bed he’d found that the ache had somewhat, if only slightly, subsided, and he closed his eyes. 

 

When he opened them again, it wasn’t due to wakefulness or outside disturbances, but a strong, persistent ache in his throat, which felt like it was lined with sandpaper. He tried to swallow and found that he was barely able to; he felt as though someone had forced Drano down his throat and then stuffed it with cotton. He fumbled in the darkness, reaching desperately for the bedside table lamp, alarmed for a moment to find that it wasn’t in it’s usual spot. He felt a glass of water and sat up with some difficulty; his body was aching and he had the distinct feeling he’d been hit by a truck. He drank the water in earnest and then tried to cough and clear his throat--a mistake, he realized immediately, as it only worsened the tightness and pain at the back of his throat. He fumbled in the darkness for a lamp and finally succeeded in switching one on. 

He was struck for a moment with the feeling of not knowing where he was before, after a long pause in which he stared at the neat, carefully decorated bedroom and remembered he had been left in the guest bedroom of Hannibal’s apartment. There was light peeking out from under the door, but the apartment was quiet. He wasn’t wearing a watch, and there was no window in the bedroom to glance out of and guess at the time. He felt as if he might have slept for a year, or for only an hour, and was wholly unable to guess the time. He fumbled around the bed until he found his phone, it’s battery thoroughly dead.

He finished the glass of water and relaxed back against the headboard; he’d had the sense to take off his suit jacket the night before, and it was hung on one of the bedposts. He knew before touching the back of his hand to his head that he had a fever. He felt grimy, and his throat was already burning for more water; he started pathetically at the floor, and the effort of climbing out of the bed seemed, momentarily, too great a feat for him. But he forced himself, albeit slowly, to edge off the bed and stand up, though his body ached and cried its protest, and hobbled to the door.

He could hear someone moving around in the kitchen, which at least meant that he couldn’t have slept too long; with any luck, Abigail was still helping Hannibal clean up while they waited for him to return to the world of the living. He went to the bathroom, first, an unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt before splashing cold water on his face and chest. When he straightened to look in the mirror, a paler, dead-eyed version of the man he’d been the night before looked back in a shirt wrinkled past hope, his hair was back to its normal mess of untamed curls. He momentarily considered fixing it, but decided that he couldn’t be damned to do it and shuffled back out of the bathroom to the kitchen, leaning against the wall for support as he went, only to walk past it and stare in dazed horror at the light pouring in through the dining room windows--he had not, in fact, slept only an hour but  _ several _ .

“Will?” 

He turned around slowly, still braced against the wall, the empty glass in his hand. Hannibal was standing in the hall by the entrance to the kitchen, looking him over with obvious concern. 

“How are you feeling?” He was dressed in a midnight blue robe over long, pristine polo pajamas, looking freshly groomed and well put-together despite seemingly being caught unawares. Certainly, standing in a room with Will, who looked as if he might’ve just escaped from an extended stay in a sunless bomb shelter, his appearance was even more obviously juxtaposed. 

“What time is it?” Will said. His voice came out constrained and weak so that he had to clear his throat and repeat himself, an attempt that seemed to aggravate the pain and do nothing to clear his throat. “I have work today.” He remembered with a jolt of horror. 

“It’s a quarter past eight. If you call your coworkers, I am sure they will be understanding of the situation; I doubt you will be of any use to them in your condition.” 

“I’m late for my shift.” Will protested weakly. His head was throbbing and combined with the ache in his muscles and his throat it was hard to focus.

“Then no doubt they are already aware you may not be coming in. Where is your phone?”

“It’s dead.”

Hannibal took his phone to charge and then sat him on the couch, where Will sunk all too willingly into the cushions. Hannibal placed a few blankets on the seat next to him before returning to the kitchen, but he still felt hot and grimy, and he didn’t touch them.

“Ginger tea with lemon and honey, to help with your throat,” Hannibal said when he repeated, handing a large blue mug it to him. He sat in the armchair next to the couch and leaned forward to brush the hair aside from his forehead and press his hand on Will’s forehead. The touch was clinical, but the feel the cool skin against his forehead was like soothing a soothing balm. “You have a fever. I can set aside some clothes for you, so that you can take a shower--”

“I should get home,” he croaked, holding the steaming mug of tea against his chest like a talisman, letting the steam rise up and warm his face as he waited for it to cool enough to drink.

“Will, you are more than welcome to stay,” Hannibal said, his tone the very idea of professionalism. 

“I think I’m good, thanks,” Will protested awkwardly. He took a sip of the tea; it had a fresh earthy taste to it; as if the ginger were freshly cut and sitting at the bottom of his cup. It was hot sliding down his throat, soothing some of the soreness in his tonsils, though it ached to swallow. “I should get home.”

“Is there someone to look after you?”

“I’m an adult, Hannibal,” he said dryly, wishing he could puddle onto the floor, a mass of human and crumpled clothes, without giving off how ill he was feeling. He could imagine the cool wood against his face, leeching the heat from him. 

“Will,” Hannibal’s responding expression was surprisingly unyielding; his face cool and unmoved by Will’s protestations, letting the weakness of Will’s argument hang in the air. 

“I’m not used to people taking care of me,” Will admitted.

“More so it would appear due to your own preference.” Hannibal asked, “But we must all compromise eventually.”

“I don’t usually  _ need _ to be taken care of.”

“It is not always our nature to know when we are in need, especially those of us who refuse to listen to the subtle communications of our own behavior,” Hannibal replied. “It is not that you are incapable, but that to carry our burdens alone would often be a waste of strength. Our friendships form as a desire to combat solitude, but their growth often proves to be beyond us. It is in our nature to protect ourselves, and by extension to protect those close to us, Will. You’re my friend; looking after you is in both of our best interests.”

“Are you like this with all of your friends?” Will challenged in spite of himself; he was trapped somewhere between irritable and exhausted, though the conversation had hardly been a long one. There was something in the way that Hannibal said his name. It was like a long, gentle sigh of relief to his brain, no matter how Hannibal said it; it was like a balm across a burn. Realizing this, he felt more urged to argue.

Hannibal looked as though he were weighing his answer; to Will, it seemed like he was deciding whether or not to lie, though Will couldn’t say what answer would be truth and what would be false until he’d heard it.

“I would be equally concerned for their wellbeing and my response would reflect such feelings,” Hannibal replied. “You concern yourself too much with hidden meanings, Will. There is no motivation in this except that you are looked after.”

Will understood what Hannibal meant immediately; his other friends were not like Will; they were older, they had partners and family and people to look after them. They were diligent and responsible enough to be relied upon to see that their needs were met, and so Hannibal might  _ offer  _ his assistance , but it would rarely be required. He was slightly disgruntled by the assumption but ultimately, he didn’t disagree with it, and his arguments died away. Hannibal seemed to read this in his expression, for he turned and headed down the hall without a word.

Ten minutes later Will was under a blissfully cool stream of water in the shower of Hannibal’s apartment. He felt the grimy feeling of sleeping in his clothes with a fever slide off of him like dirt being washed off of a sidewalk. The shampoo in the bathroom had an intense, spearmint smell and the conditioner left his hair feeling silken and smooth, all things he might have appreciated had they not been filtered through the fog of illness upon him, only slightly dispersed by the shower.

Hannibal had given him a pair of pajamas to wear when he got out of the shower, and he drug himself into them after drying off; they fit better than he’d have expected, having been tailored for Hannibal. He went to the mirror and looked at himself; he was a bit paler than usual, the bags under his eyes a bit more noticeable, but otherwise he didn’t seem to look nearly as ill as he felt. This was hardly uncommon, however; he felt grounded by looking in the mirror, by seeing his own face looking back at him, healthier and more together than he felt. 

Hannibal had made him more tea and a small breakfast of french toast and a sliced orange for breakfast. The food was hard to swallow but he felt like it’d be rude not to, so he ate it despite his lack of appetite. The tea soothed his throat, if only slightly, which felt as though he had a small inner tube fully inflated between his tonsils. By the time he had finished eating, he could feel a chill coming upon him, seizing him slowly like clammy tentacles snaking around him until he was under all of the blankets Hannibal had left on the couch and still freezing. 

There was no television in Hannibal’s living room. There was no idle chatter of people speaking about work or the weather in the background, only the soothing sound of classical harpsichord on the record player. Will normally wouldn’t have minded it too much, only he felt too ill to do anything, if he had known what else to do at another person’s apartment anyways. 

“What do you do all day?” Will asked hoarsely. 

“I am fond of reading and music when I am not otherwise occupied.”

“Read me something.”

He hadn’t expected Hannibal to actually get up, but then he was returning a moment later, book in hand, without the slightest appearance of being perturbed; to the contrary, he almost appeared as if he was returning to an activity from which they had just been rudely interrupted. 

He sat down next to Will, warmth radiating off of him in waves. Will’s head was beginning to pound, and so he closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch, his arms crossed against his chest and his chin pointed down like a vampire in its coffin.

“You, uh, shouldn’t sit so close to me,” Will warned, and the weakness in his voice seemed more intent; an extra warning. Hannibal seemed unperturbed, however, and he opened the book and began to read without introduction. 

“ _ I visited Naples in the year 1818. On the eighth of December that year... _ ” The style of the writing slowly grew familiar to him in a recent, vague way as Hannibal read on. The introduction was about the travels of the narrator, who might have been the author, through such mythical places such as the Elysian Fields and eventually came upon Sibyl’s face. The book, it is revealed, is the attempts of the narrator to translate the leaves found there.

“Before we get too into this,” Will interrupted, at the pause before the start of the first chapter. “Who...exactly... _ is _ Sybil ?”

Hannibal seemed slightly surprised, but not at all put off by the interruption. On the contrary, he shifted to face Will with a look of patience and wisdom to explain.

“The word Sibyl translates literally to the  _ prophetess  _ and works more as a title than a nomenclature for priestesses of Apollo. In this particular case, it references the oracle of Cumae from Ancient Greece. Her portrait hangs by the hand of Andrea del Castagno in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, Raphael in the Santa Maria Della Pace and in the Sistine Chapel by Michelangelo. Her prophecies were burned by the Roman General Flavius in the name of Christ which led, many believed, to the Gothic invasion that occurred half a decade after. She led Aeneas to the Hades and prophesied lyrically and through paintings on leaves.” The words sounded like poetry on Hannibal’s lips, and this was something because everything Hannibal said sounded like poetry; the cadence in his voice when he read was so soothing that Will fought through the heavy feeling of sickness settled into him to listen when part of him just wanted to sleep. 

“Oh,” Was all he could muster for a moment. “Who wrote this book? The voice sounds familiar like I’ve read something from them before, but I can’t think of who.”

“It is called The Last Man. It was perhaps the most unpopular book Mary Percy Shelley wrote in her lifetime, meant as an exploration of her depression as well as a semi-biographical depiction of the friends she had lost, whom she channeled into the characters. No doubt you’re familiar with The Modern Prometheus, most commonly known as--”

“Frankenstein.” Will finished. 

“While there is no arguing the significance or the brilliance of The Modern Prometheus,” Hannibal continued. “It seemed due, considering the history of our friendship, that we continue down the less traveled path.”

Will let out a huff of air but didn’t argue. He let his chin rest against his chest and closed his eyes. 

“You may lean against me if you’d like to. I think you’ll find the warmth quite healing in your current state.” 

Will didn’t protest, only did as Hannibal had suggested, the relief of another person’s warmth eased his struggle, even though it was Hannibal; even though his heart was beating a little faster now. He still shivered the chill of his sickness uncompromising but was able to reassure himself with, at the very least, the comfort of another person was there.

He wondered what Hannibal was thinking, but then Will supposed he was probably focused more than anything on the book from which he had resumed reading. Will returned his focus to the words, and about ten minutes into the first chapter, his eyes shuttered closed and he succumbed, again, to sleep, barely having registered the ease of the chills that had plagued him.

  
  


That was how he spent most of the day; helplessly in Hannibal’s care, occasionally relying on him for warmth in addition to food and hot tea and water. Hannibal placed a cold, only just damp washcloth on his head to leech out some of the fever out of his body, and it was this that woke him up from his nap. Hannibal had been leaning by him, having apparently extricated himself from the couch after Will had drifted off, and their eyes had met and Will wasn’t sure if the slow relief he was feeling was from the comforting cool of the washcloth or from Hannibal’s cool, unassuming face, that had not reacted to the avoidance of eye contact he reinstated. He’d sat up, holding the cloth to his head, and shrugged off the blankets that were now making him feel too hot and slightly smothered. 

“How’m I doing, doc?” Will asked with a wind of humor that was mostly lost in the tight hush of his voice.

Hannibal’s raised eyebrows said everything. He was made to go to a clinic finally, and from there was given a prescription for antibiotics to treat tonsillitis. The entire trip was miserable, even with the pleasant company; he felt quickly fatigued and the sun, growing more comfortable in the beginnings of spring, worsened or else created headaches that seemed to pulse through his entire body. They picked up the prescription promptly after, and though the receptionist had originally said the wait would be a couple hours, they were called after only thirty minutes, which Will thought might have to do with the talk Hannibal and the receptionist had had after Will had sat down.  _ Smug, sweet talking bastard _ . Will thought affectionately. 

Hannibal took him back to his own apartment afterward, to Will’s relief; he felt more at ease in his own home. Hannibal had gone above and beyond to make him comfortable in his apartment, but truth be told, even Beverly’s place, which offered its own, slightly foreign comfort his own home couldn’t provide, could more easily set him on edge. Like a cat outside its territory, always at least little more on edge, trying to take everything in and establish a feeling of relative safety. But still, Hannibal’s apartment, like Beverly’s, offered something that Will’s couldn’t, though it would be wrong to say they offered the exact same thing.

“Thanks, Hannibal,” Will said hoarsely. “I, uh, really appreciate everything you’ve done today.”

“Of course, Will,” Hannibal replied kindly, already preparing a large travel mug of tea (so that the drink would stay hot, regardless of how long it took Will to drink it) and a glass of water to sit on the coffee table. The cat greeted them after hiding in the bedroom for the first few minutes after their arrival, walking into the room with a cautious, slow gait and watching Hannibal with large, round eyes. Hannibal smiled with unexpected fondness at the cat, who hadn’t deigned to come out the day before while they were getting ready, opting instead to hide under Will’s bed. “You’ve kept her.”

“Huh? Oh, well, yeah. She’s still figuring her way around me but we’re getting used to each other.” He said, missing the almost wistful expression that lingered, only briefly, over Hannibal’s face before melting away automatically. 

It was true; Will had never had a cat before but was growing not only accustomed but vaguely fond of silent vigilance she kept over him in the apartment. Will, who had sunk feebly into the couch almost immediately upon coming home, was already drinking the fresh tea. 

“You won’t start to feel better for at least twenty-four hours.” Hannibal reminded him, and though the concern was hidden from his face, Will got the feeling he was fighting the urge to check his fever again. “I could stay.”

“No, Hannibal,” Will said earnestly. “I’m  _ fine _ . We’ve both missed enough work because of the--goddamnit.” It wasn’t until the words had formed on his tongue that he realized he’d never actually called in; just gone no-show entirely. He reached instinctively for his phone and found his pocket empty. “Hannibal...did you by chance remember to grab my phone before we left your apartment?” His voice was tense and on edge; he could already see the anger on their faces, ripe with frustration and annoyance not because he was sick, but  _ couldn’t he even be bothered to call _ ? And Beverly knew he’d had the dinner party the night before--no doubt she was fuming, rightfully so, thinking he’d shrugged off a shift after getting too drunk. Worse, of course, she wasn’t entirely wrong; if he had drunk less, he wouldn’t have stayed the night in the first place, would have woken up at home, feeling more or less as sick as he did now (though he couldn’t help but think that getting drunk made him get sick more quickly) and called in first thing. You weren’t allowed to go into work if you might be infectious, it was a strict rule, and if Jack was there, or he showed up and could tell you were sick, he’d take you into the back and remind you what it like to be a teenager again; getting yelled at for stealing your parent’s car or coming home past curfew, the self-defiance and shame pulsing in you even as you shoved away the knowledge that you were wrong. 

He knew Hannibal’s answer before he gave it; the phone was back at Hannibal’s apartment. Will sighed and dragged his hand down his face in defeat; Hannibal lived half an hour away. He’d have to do without it, for now.

“I’m afraid it slipped our minds,” Hannibal admitted remorsefully. There was a shade, if only a letter off, of ingenuity on his face of which Will took no notice.

“Can I borrow yours? I don’t have a landline.”

Hannibal reached into his pocket and obligingly brought the phone to him. It took Will a long, tired moment before he remembered what he  _ hoped _ was Beverly’s number and waited for it to ring. He’d look up the store next if he’d gotten it wrong and take the shit they were going to give him now, rather than later. The phone rang but didn’t answer. If she was working, (and though it was becoming harder to remember through the fog in his brain, he  _ thought _ she was) then it was to be expected. He stood up slowly--a fleeting sense of vertigo washed over him and he nearly fell back onto his ass but for the hands that grabbed and steadied him. He closed his eyes for an endless moment and said nothing.

“Will?” Hannibal said questioningly. “I think your body disagrees with you.”

Will sighed. Faintly he had the urge to ask Hannibal to sit on the couch with him again, to let Will leech the warmth off of him. He felt a hand on his forehead. His skin felt like ice to him, like he’d just come in from scuba diving in Antarctica, but he heard Hannibal’s breath by his face saying something about his fever. 

“My laptops in my room.” He explained, his voice giving out half way through the sentence so he had to repeat it. 

He felt the hands on him disappear. He couldn’t remember the name of where he worked, for some reason, but Hannibal used his phone to look it up and put in the number for him. Will took the phone and waited as it rung, dreading the voice on the other end.

“Hello, this is...” he heard the voice begin to answer--it was Price, not Beverly, but not Zeller, either, or someone else at the shop he didn’t know. 

“It’s Will, I’m sorry I didn’t make it in this morning--”

“Will? God, you sound terrible!” Price exclaimed, too high energy for Will’s current state of mind. Will could hear the sounds of the shop in the background, the buzz of people and goings-on thick in the air on the other end of the phone. 

_ “It’s Will? Ask him why he missed his shift this morning!”  _ Will heard someone--Zeller, he thought vaguely, demand in the background.

“I think he’s sick,” Price answered, before addressing Will. “Are you sick?”

“Tonsillitis.”

“ _ Sick my ass, he’s hungover _ .” Will heard Zeller argue in the background. 

“Well, probably that  _ too _ ,” Price allowed. “But he’s definitely sick, he sounds like someone’s taken a cheese grater to his vocal cords.”

“He’s  _ faking _ it!” Zeller sounded exasperated. 

“You really should’ve called in earlier, you know,” Price said, his voice light but reproachful-like a kindergarten teacher’s. “Jack will be pleased to know you didn’t come in sick this time. But really, why  _ didn’t _ you call earlier?”

“My phone’s dead. It’s uh, not charging fast enough.” He said hoarsely. “Did you get someone in to cover me?”

“Yeah, we got you covered. I gotta go, Will. Feel better--”

“ _ He’s not sick. _ ” Zeller’s voice insisted from the other end before the phone clicked. 

Will handed the phone back to Hannibal. 

“Thanks, though you might want to sanitize that.”

“I can bring your phone back later this afternoon--”

“Don’t worry about it,” Will said dismissively. He couldn’t remember the point of a cell phone--he had a laptop, same thing, right? Hannibal’s expression was calm but displeased. “No one’s calling me anyways.”

“I’d prefer to come back, regardless, once an errand or two has been seen to,” Hannibal replied, only slightly insistent. “If only to look after you.”

Will didn’t have to see his face to hear the truth in his voice, and it was a bit overwhelming to process, for some reason. He nodded, and looked to Hannibal’s face, and though it was only the mist of illness that he thought so confidently, he wished he was well enough to be closer again, whatever that meant. 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's midnight, the night after mother's day, but I'm here, and so is chapter twelve! I worked really hard to get this out to you asap as a thank you for being so patient in the past with me. I had random episodes of Hannibal playing in the background while writing this, and ended up rewatching the finale and the episode in season two when they discussed Abigail's "death" because I really wanted to bring that pain and emotion into this chapter. ( I love to suffer.)  
> I still have some editing to do, so if you notice a mistake, please point it out! As always, if you want to, you can find me at ourdeathswillstopnothing on Tumblr!

Will had already showered a second time when Hannibal returned. Will had let Hannibal take his key so that he could let himself back in when he returned. Getting up and shuffling through his apartment, the silence and emptiness of it making it feel, for the first time, too large. The thought would have made him laugh, if he hadn’t felt quite so nauseous at that particular moment, as if he didn’t get a better job or win the lottery in the next year or so he was facing the likely possibility that he wold have to have to find a smaller apartment to avoid dwindling down all of his savings. It was that, or get a roommate, a prospect Will might have entertained had he known someone suitable to move in with. Beverly, with her one bedroom rent-controlled apartment, would be sympathetic but hardly enough to uproot herself and move. Abigail was living in the dorms and he wouldn't feel right asking her, or admitting he was worrying about money. There were other options, of course, people at work or the faint possibility of a serious girlfriend, but neither seemed likely or sustainable.

Will changed into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt after the shower. Being sick threw Will off of his game; normally, he was more amicable than most people to different climates. It was a skill he had developed when he was a kid and he and his father were still moving around all the time, a relic of his history that helped in a city as seasonably faithful as New York. Nightmares were the only exception: when woke up, his body soaked in sweat and his lungs feeling empty as he gasped for breath, his skin clammy and sticky like a frog’s. Being in a sweat while he was sick reminded him of that; the moments after a nightmare when he realized it _was_ just a nightmare and that relatively speaking he was safe, and that none of the reassurances he gave himself mattered because he was still scared, or angry or _upset_ , his heart pounding and his body trembling as he tried to convince it that the room wasn't as cold, or as hot, as it was convinced it was, though he often caved and climbed into the shower to rinse off the cold or the sweat that clung to him.

It was the same feeling he had now, only with the physical sensations of being ill in place of the post-adrenaline high he got after those dreams. His shower was ice cold and then steaming hot, and it should have thrown off his equilibrium but today, it didn’t, and when he’d changed clothes he slumped back to the couch and turned the tv on for noise before falling asleep under a throw blanket, his temperature momentarily at ease.

He was asleep when Hannibal came in, and it was to the soft timber of his voice he woke, his name spoken with the same odd soft firmness that he’d come to associate with Hannibal. He had his temperature felt for again after he straightened up on the couch, hair still damp and head swimming. Hannibal brought him fresh tea and sat next to him on the couch, and Will fell back to sleep on his shoulder and when he woke up a couple of hours later, it took him a long moment to process that he was lying down with his head rested in Hannibal’s lap, Hannibal’s expression serene as he looked down at him.

Will tried to bolt up instinctively but his body was heavy and weak and Hannibal gently pressed a hand down on his chest so that he fell back the inch he’d gotten up with a small _oph_ and had Hannibal’s deep, fond gaze looking down at him. It should have felt heavy, like something as physical as the hand on his chest, or uncomfortable, like standing in front of his classmates during presentations had been until he’d learn to separate the idea of talking _to_ and talking _at_ , but it felt feather light.

“Why are you so insistent you look after me?”

“Because you’re my friend,”

“Why?”

Hannibal sighed, and put his hand on Will’s head. This time, Will knew he wasn’t having his temperature taken. He might have panicked, but Hannibal’s expression was calm and even, and the concern was present but only just. Hannibal’s thumb brushed the curls gently off of Will’s forehead and Will looked at the lines in Hannibal’s face while he waited for an answer.

“You carry your suspicions with you like a brand on your skin,” Hannibal said gently. “For so long I wonder if you’ve remembered you don’t have to.”

Will laughed.

“Yeah, well it doesn’t _feel_ like I can take it off. Besides - it’s more that I don’t like to hear the words out loud than my worries about someone else’s response to them.”

“Your fears are a part of you but they don’t define you, Will. You can leave them behind. In order to build a sound foundation, you must start with communication and trust, no matter how much your anxiety nudges you against it.”

“I talk to people.” Will snapped defiantly. Hannibal let the words hang in the air, leaving them out to shrivel until Will added; “We’re talking. I’m talking to you.”

Hannibal’s fingers drug themselves slowly through his hair, sifting through messy curls.

“Why do you think you struggle so much with trust, Will?”

Will had a knot tied in his stomach, thick and filling his abdomen like his insides were being tying themselves up into intricate patterns. He felt like he’d rather vomit than keep talking. It was at that moment that Wynn chose to hop onto the arm of the couch, uttering a soft, confused meow as she stared at Will. She'd never behaved this at ease with him before. She  settled on his chest, eyes staring into his warily, another force trying to calm him.

“My father’s lifestyle wasn’t particularly _conducive_ to forming the strong bonds that promote trusting relationships. The most time we spent together was for fishing, and you have to stay absolutely silent for that.” He sighed, his hands clenching where they rested on his stomach. “I lack the foundation to build trust upon.”

“You avoid talking about your family, except for Abigail. The bond formed between siblings can be an anchor throughout life.”

Will looked towards the tv. There was a commercial for a travel agency on, pictures of a young white nuclear family smiling and wearing leis in Hawaii. He was grateful for it, if only because it kept the room from flooding with silence; even if he’d been sitting up, he felt like he’d drown in it, even though at the same time he felt alienated by it, his family more ostracized by their inability to meet the standards of expectation for the modern consumer.

“You make it sounds like I’m...some damaged piece of glass,” Will replied, his voice cracking a bit, his body tense as he tried to shake off the nerves biting into his muscles. “But my family isn’t some huge source of contention for me, Hannibal. I’m not afraid of my past, it’s just ugly.”

“Ugly is an interesting choice of word,” Hannibal replied cooly. Will’s resistance hung in the air like a wall made of half frozen water; foggy, weak, and ready to break. “It’s not poisonous, not toxic, it’s distasteful. Do you have trouble with taste?”

“My thoughts are often not tasty,” Will replied dryly. “All this talk about communication. Shouldn’t you be encouraging me _not_ to use my voice, Doctor Lecter?”

“Your body is healing, your mind is not.”

“Am I _damaged_?” Will replied.

“You tell me. Your mind is closed to me, Will. I know only what you let me see.”

Will closed his eyes and slowly, shakily exhaled a long breath. He unclenched his hands on his stomach, feeling the tension flowing through him like blood.

“You...you were talking about sibling bonds earlier,” Will said hesitantly.

“I was.”

“ _Technically_ speaking...Abigail’s not my sister.”

Will felt a boiling sensation in the back of his brain as the headache returned, and if the conversation weren’t enough to make him uneasy, trying to remain still, lying down like this, was making it worse. He had a nervous habit of putting his hands on his face when he was talking about things that made him uncomfortable, but with Hannibal’s already lingering there on his forehead, he didn’t move. Will wasn’t particularly good with physical contact; not that he necessarily minded it (assuming the person was someone he liked), but he wasn’t generally one to initiate physical intimacies, except occasionally during a date. He often found even giving comfort proved difficult; often the best he could offer was a hand on a shoulder in response to the crinkle in a person’s face showing the angst, the love, or excitement, the want for support through touch. It wasn’t that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t do it, simply that unless the move came naturally, his brain overrode the move. Right now, the only urge he had was to hide his face and pace, to turn away.

“If not your sister, what is she?” Hannibal ingested the information slowly, with just noticeable inhalation of breath through his nostrils, like a jungle cat might before launching itself onto prey, a sound not of surprise, but preparation.

Will sat up. It was a mistake; his head swam, and he had to brace himself against the back of the couch as he tried to fight vertigo. He got up, slowly and with difficulty, unseating The cat. He went to the kitchen to make himself a fresh cup of tea.

“Do you want some?” he asked, his voice even more pathetic with its heaviness.

“You shouldn’t have troubled yourself; I would have been made you more.”

Will made the tea in silence, sitting with the cup steaming, the bag still steeping as sugar dissolved at the bottom. He didn’t return to the couch but sat in the , old armchair next to his couch after dragging it slowly into a better position to talk. There was a silence hanging over the room, but Hannibal didn’t seem to mind it, and if he was annoyed it didn’t show. Will slouched in the chair, resisting the urge to cross his legs like a child.

“She’s still family. My mother’s brother’s daughter,”

“Your only connection to your mother?”

“Yeah. My uncle used to say all the time, ‘ _Oh, always knew it wouldn’t last, the moment she got pregnant. She’d have made a terrible mother_ .’ He thought I was lucky she’d run off.” He forced a fake laugh. “Used to drive my dad crazy. ‘ _Don’t tell him nonsense like that! He doesn’t need to hear that about his mother._ ’”

“So often we hear stories of abandonment, of those who cannot bear the terror of carrying life into this world. Mothers are so often seen as the devotee, the one who experiences the strongest connection with her child. It is less often we discuss the willing departure of mothers. How did it feel, growing up without a mother?”

“You know how it feels,” Will said dismissively, with more malice than he’d intended.

“I have lived more of my life without my mother than with her,” Hannibal agreed. “There is a certain finality to death, though, Will. There was no question in my mind of my mother returning when she died, nor was her place empty in my memory. I can still see my family, I can still know them. You never knew your mother.”

“What was your mother like?” Will asked genuinely.

“She was a kind woman. She and my sister used to sing throughout the house. My father sang with her sometimes, too.”

“Did you sing?” A slow, teasing smile crept onto Will’s face in spite of himself.

“I did. Often and poorly. My parents carried themselves with dignity and treated my sister and me with love.” Hannibal replied easily.

“Well, Abigail’s didn’t,” Will said, his voice matter-of-fact, trying to detach from the story he was telling.

“How did Abigail’s mother treat her?” Hannibal asked, patient and serene. It was easier than ever to picture him as a therapist. Will could see that Hannibal slipping into that role and holding himself back, as if knowing in turn that Will could see it. He was trying to remain the friend, patient and wise, who could empathize and actualize without the clinical assessments, the factory probing that came from therapy.

Will’s eyes were focused on the knuckles of Hannibal’s hands. It was easier to avoid eye contact by looking at different parts of the face, truly, but Will generally couldn’t focus even so near them, his own eyes would dart around a person’s face: nose, eyebrow, left cheekbone, ear. It gave him away. Hands had their own intimacy, of course, though Will couldn’t really say he avoided eye contact for the avoidance of intimacy, it was just too much, it felt almost rude, piercing, like trying to take an x-ray of the sun.

“I almost don’t feel right talking about it,” Will replied honestly. “Like I’m going around and telling her story and making it about me. It’s not my story to tell.”

“What happened to Abigail affected you. Her experiences have clearly helped shape you, the same as I’m sure your experiences shaped Abigail. How long was it after you moved to New York that she decided to follow you here?”

“I moved in August...” Will replied reluctantly, though it was hardly a secret that Abigail had followed him to New York. “Abigail applied for the Spring semester in September. Moved in January.”

“How often did she visit you before then?”

“A lot.” He smiled a little, remembering how excited she’d been when he’d agreed to buy her a plane ticket to The Big Apple. The romance of travel still existed for her, and neither of them had ever been to New York City before he’d moved. She’d dragged him around the city for the entire weekend, and after that, she’d begged and begged to come back for longer. He could’ve put his foot down, said no, or had a talk with her about responsibility, but it was _Abigail_. Her interest in things came in waves and to see it sustained for so long could hardly be something he ignored. He’d known it was partly the city, and partly that she missed him. It was cruel, in its way, leaving for college in the first place. He’d felt sometimes just as much like her father as her brother if he were being honest, and she teased him for this in their better moments, held it against him in their worse ones.

“Her father had a _factitious disorder imposed on another_.” Will finally said, sounding like he was quoting a doctor.

“Munchausen by proxy is rarely diagnosed in men.” If he was surprised, he didn’t show it, and Will was looking at his face, now.

“I think they suspected something from her mother for a while, but it’s true; fathers don’t typically abuse their children that _particular_ way.”

“How did you discover the abuse?”

The seconds dragged by, heavy and weighted.

“I, uh...Can I tap out for now?” Will finally said desperately.

Hannibal’s face softened a fraction and he said “You may,” with utter delicacy.

“Do you have my phone?” Will asked, trying to reign himself in. “I should check it before someone breaks my door down.”

“Of course,” Hannibal said, standing promptly and producing the phone from his pocket before bringing it to Will.

“Thank you,” Will said, taking it. “What about you? No clients today?”

“I found my time better spent in the company of a friend,” Hannibal replied, returning to his seat.

Will smiled. “Better not tell your clients that. Though, I’d, uh, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t beginning to feel like one.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Does it bother _you_ ? I think if I spent all day listening to people complain about their lives, story after story, patient after patient, it might get a little _bleak_ after a while. I think if I had a friend that wanted to play patient I’d probably tell him to make an appointment.”

Hannibal let the smallest smile slip onto his face. “Rather to the contrary. You’ve always fascinated me, Will, our conversations are as beneficial to me as I hope they are to you. Besides, if the daily regime of therapy were so abhorrent to me as you seem to think, I’d be in the wrong profession. Therapy is healing when it’s successful. The patient heals, and I am healed to see it, and to know I was a part of it.”

“Do I fascinate you as a friend or as a patient?” Will asked warily, standing up again. He went to the kitchen sink to run some warm water. He splashed it across his face and felt, if only slightly, better.

“You fascinate me from my perspective as your friend and as a psychiatrist. That does not give you the anonymity of a patient, nor does it rob you of the warmth of my friendship. I cannot entirely separate who I am from what I do, Will. But as both a doctor, and as your friend, I feel obligated to look after you.”

Will dried his face on a paper towel and stood, feeling gangly and uncomfortable, his muscles rigid and twitchy. “I think I like that you want to look out for me,” Will said, the words sounding strained and pathetic in his ears. This was one of the fundamental reasons he had never submitted himself to therapy, or fostered a long-term relationship; he hated feeling this vulnerable.

“Then allow me to,” Hannibal replied as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

“I’m _trying_.”

“Try harder.”

Will unstuck himself from the place where he stood, flexing his grip on the counter behind him. He stood by where Hannibal was sitting, put his hand over Hannibal’s on the armrest of the couch, and looked with flighty excitement and fear into Hannibal’s eyes.

“How?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe it's taken me this long to update! So many things have come up--my birthday was last week, my work schedule has been, until recently, out of control, and I took a very last minute trip to California last minute during the weekend I was meant to write the next chapter.  
> Anyways, enough excuses! It's here, short though it may be, it's the set up for what I hope will be a very fun chapter to follow. I promise, until the end, when the story is fit to be finished I will never go this long without posting again!

“I wonder what it’s like to live in this part of town,” Abigail muttered. “To grow up in this part of New York.” Her gaze was fixed pointedly on the apartment building’s lobby as the door slid closed, leaving behind a room plush and stylishly decorated in shades of mauve and beige. 

Vague memories of his life before Abigail drifted like clouds through Will’s mind. He had been still very young, only six when she was born and twelve when she’d come to live with them, but it was more than enough time to remember. Short but specific moments, blurred faces of people he’d met while they were still traveling floated behind his eyes, an old man who told him about mermaids living in the ocean, a stray cat that hung out by the curb on trash days, a kid three years his senior who’d bragged about learning out to drive his father’s boat, whose name he couldn’t remember. He’d always been too nervous to ask many questions about why they moved around so much, but he wasn’t an unhappy child. His relationship with his father may not have been top tier but it had been good, and their memories together were mostly positive ones. He couldn’t reframe his life, even his more settled adolescence, in the frame of New York City that Abigail was speaking of, let alone this New York. He liked the city well enough but it had been more of a place to escape than a real destination for him, somewhere he had stopped and, for some reason, stayed. A part of him might’ve thought he’d return to school, or to his father’s house, or settle out somewhere with some land and a place to fish nearby, a little house on its own planet, separate but not removed. But it had been almost a year since he’d moved here, and he hadn’t made any plans to leave. 

“Money has its own downsides. Besides, there’d be no fishing.” Will replied. 

“That’s true, I guess.” Abigail said thoughtfully “Do you think Hannibal grew up in a place like this?”

Will tried to shift his mind away from misty memories of his own childhood and focus on Abigail’s question.

“You should ask him. He’s got all sorts of stories about growing up, traveling Europe.” 

“Wow,” she said, though her voice didn’t give any indication of how she felt about this. “You guys sure do spend a lot of time together.” She turned her gaze from the elevator doors to her brother, swiping a lock of dark hair back behind her ear. She had straightened it before meeting him partway to Hannibal’s apartment in the subway. “Do you think he’d want to come with us next month?” Her voice was slow and curious and her eyes shone like the headlights of a train lighting up a tunnel as it came around a corner.

“I don’t know that fishing is his type of thing, Abigail.”

Hannibal answered dutifully only moments after the first knock and Will left his jacket on the coat hanger by the entrance. The apartment’s orderliness would have looked sterile if not for the personality carefully weaved into it. Leaving his jacket, he felt in some way a small part of that craftsmanship. 

“Good evening,” Hannibal said politely as they followed him inside. The entire suite smelled of rich herbs and with a pang Will looked at the wine in Abigail’s arms, hoping it would suit the meal. 

“It smells amazing,” Abigail said, closing her eyes to inhale. “Breakfast for dinner?”

Hannibal smiled and inclined his head in confirmation. Next to him, Abigail brightened from sunset to mid-day and he couldn’t stop the laugh escaping his lips. Abigail gave him an elbow in the ribs. 

“Not just breakfast. High Life eggs. A chef in Spain called Muro claims he invented it in the 19th century.” Hannibal went to work in the kitchen like he was built to cook for an audience. He pulled three mugs out of a cabinet and smoothly filled two mugs with liquid from a stainless steel carafe, passing a mug to each of them. “Taste is not only biochemical, it’s also psychological, evoking memories of places and experiences.” 

Will looked at the steaming liquid in his clear glass mug. It was hot chocolate. 

“What memories are you trying to evoke, exactly?” Will replied. 

Hannibal smiled as if he’d been caught. Will drank the hot chocolate without further comment and found that, of course, it was delicious. Abigail presented the wine and in a spark of immediate thoughtfulness, Hannibal brought out pears, which Abigail chopped and left to soak in the wine. 

Dinner was severed at the end of the hour, and as before Hannibal insisted his guests, though it was only the two of them, take their seats before dinner was brought to the table. Will had never enjoyed a more satisfying breakfast. The eggs were seasoned and runny and when he took a bite of the sausage, the juices swam across his tongue so thickly he almost sighed. The meal was served with orange juice from ripe fruit Hannibal had sent Will to juice. He ate eagerly and was full far too quickly. 

 

“It’s delicious,” Will said immediately, and Abigail had echoed the sentiment, and Hannibal had only smiled and given them more credit for their help than they had earned. “I can’t remember the last time I had a proper breakfast.”

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Hannibal advised. “One should always indulge in breakfast, especially those of us who spend their time making breakfast for other people,”

“That’s easy to say when you don’t have to be at work before five thirty in the morning,” Will replied dryly. “I try, I just haven’t had the energy lately. Been pulling longer shifts at work, it’s taking a lot out of me.” 

“I’ll send you home with some food,” Hannibal replied. “I may not be able to ensure you eat every morning, but I certainly can see to the next few. If the long hours are the problem, why not lighten your load?”

Abigail’s fork scraped lightly against the plate as she poked at a piece of sausage.  “Our fishing trip is coming up,” Abigail explained. “We used to go all the time, but with me in school and the both of us in the city...we decided to plan a trip for next month,” 

“Saving money to take time off of work,” Will added. 

“Not staying in the city, then?” Hannibal inquired coolly. 

“There are places to fish in the city, but we prefer to be closer to nature,” A faint, far away smile smoothed itself across Abigail’s face and Will imagined he could see the flits of memory reflected on her retinas as they replayed in her brain. “I can only stay for the weekend, but Will’s going for a week.” The memories snapped off abruptly as Abigail’s voice turned resigned. “I have school.” She said, looking at Will. 

There would be other trips during the summer, when, if their conversations on the subject so far were anything to go by, she’d spend most of her time on his couch, regardless. Or, even more likely, he’d let her move into the bedroom and he’d spend the summer on the couch unless they decided to look for a bigger apartment before his lease ran out. 

“Undoubtedly your brother is looking out for your best interests,” Hannibal replied demurely, aiming a keen chop at the small block of tension brought into the room. “Surely there will be other trips, other days amongst nature.”

“Do you like fishing?” Abigail asked. 

“I confess myself little familiar with the skill,” Hannibal replied. “Though I understand the appeal. The silence required for many types of fishing offers a unique solitude, even when one is among other people. One might say it allows a new bond to form between those people; there’s a power in the ability to stand among one another, bathing in the sounds of water and breath.” 

“A lot of patience is required,” Will agreed. “And it may be the only time you’ll see me sum up the energy to actually cook dinner.” 

“A sight all the more valuable for its rarity,” Hannibal said whole-heartedly. 

“You’ll have to have Hannibal over for dinner sometime,” Abigail said. “Or else he’ll think we’re only interested in the food.” 

“Last time Hannibal came over to my apartment for dinner he did all of the cooking,” Will replied wryly. “I’m not sure he’d let me if I begged him, and even then I’d probably get so nervous it’d end up tasting like cat food.”

Hannibal smiled. “Perhaps we could learn from each other. I could show you the finer points of cooking, and you could show me the depths of fishing.” 

Will looked up from his plate, surprised. “You’re welcome to join us,” he replied automatically. 

“Where did you plan on making your trip? Perhaps we could make a vacation out of it.”

“It’s nothing big,” Will replied, feeling simultaneously embarrassed and defensive of his little trip.

“What did you have in mind?” Abigail interjected, sensing Will about to steer the conversation away.

“Well, we would have to wait for you to finish your exams,” Hannibal began. “But I believe I know just the destination.” 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio take a trip across the country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, _finally_ , am I right?

Will’s breathing was soft and quiet, and he was not plagued by dreams. His mouth hung slightly open, short curls splayed across his face. They had been in the air for nearly five hours, and he had fallen asleep after the first two. To his right Abigail slept just as soundly, unbothered by the turbulence of the flight. 

Hannibal sat at the window, comfortably snug for a man accustomed to first class. Outside the morning sun shone through clouds, but he had pulled the cover down to ease their gentle sleep next to him. The seatbelt sign had returned, and they were at the start of their descent, but he didn’t wake them yet, only watched them idly between turning pages, though now his book lay closed in his lap. A flight attendant came by collecting trash leftover from the flight refreshments, but he had none to deposit. 

The plane touched down and rocked the passengers slightly in their seats, rousing Abigail, though they had to wake Will a moment later. The airport was busy but not particularly crowded, and Abigail went to buy coffee while they waited for their baggage at the luggage carousel. They had boarded their plane at JFK airport at fifteen to eight in New York, but now it was just past eleven. Will rubbed at his eyes and watched blearily as their bags made their way down the conveyer belt towards them. When all of their bags had been gathered, Hannibal left Will on a bench while he arranged the car rental and picked them up at the front of the airport. It was over an hour before they were at the house Hannibal had rented out for them, a two story with three bedrooms, the largest of which was downstairs, it’s entrance at the living room, while the other two were at the top of a narrow staircase along with a bathroom. The shower was large and, to Will’s mind, not terribly well thought out--it had a glass wall that closed it off from the rest of the room with a glass door one had to pull inwards to open before stepping down into the shower, and a small window sent light into the area. A nice design in theory, if you didn’t slip climbing out.                                          

But, altogether, the house was lovely. Light hardwood floors, a cozy backyard, the downstairs bathroom clawfoot bathtub and marble tile, the wide window in the bedroom with light blue curtains. The neighborhood was on the bay, their little two story nestled amongst cozy small cafes, quirky restaurants, and little groceries. The homes filled with beach goers and dog owners, their succulents, green, blue and pink-tipped blooming in gardens, pots, by doorways and on terraces. They were only a few minutes walk from the beach, and Will’s only regret was that he didn’t have a dog of his own to make the journey with him. 

He unpacked in the smaller of the two upstairs bedrooms,  a decent sized room plainly furnished with a full-sized bed, a dresser and a nightstand, but the window looked out on the street towards the beach, the tall sand dunes on the other side of the street blocking the water but drifting the smell of the the Pacific through when it was cracked open. Unpacking took almost no time; he took out only shampoo, his shaving razor, and his aftershave and left his open suitcase on top of the dresser. 

He still didn’t fully understand that he was doing here. Why he had allowed Hannibal, a man who just a few months ago had been a stranger pestering him at work, commandeer the fishing vacation he and Abigail had been planning for months. Hannibal, who in spite of his reassurances and protestations had an apparent supra-platonic view of their relationship. The matter would have to remain unresolved; the pursuit of an answer to the questions at hand would levy a higher bill than he was willing to pay: he would sooner let things lie. He spent already too much time in the pursuit of answers to unasked questions, cracking people open and poking their yolks until they burst and bled. He could see enough of Hannibal, he could see he was trying to help, and it was enough. 

  
  


They left early in the morning, knowing they’d need the day for their drive to Santa Cruz, the main idea of which was it’s stops and views along the coastal highway that would take them there, most improvised with the exception of a strawberry farm Hannibal had suggested, that he might visit old friends and that they might pick fresh strawberries. 

The stops along their drive were breathtaking. Their first let them at a small cliff that opened up in a wide crescent-shaped beach to their left, where topaz water and pearly foam rushed against the tan beach. Their roads took them between valleys and over hills and along roads that hugged the cliffside. An hour into the drive they reached a beach near a small town called Half Moon Bay.  They were on a small cliff, no more than twenty feet above a beach with beige sand, this one covered more with bright purple and blue and yellow flowers and high green bushels than grass, and upon stepping from the car they found that the beach smelt not of salt and sea but of their fragrance, an unexpectedly sweet soft smell like a field of berries, though there were none in sight. 

They stopped at cliffs and at beaches, marveled at an unexpected marsh several hours into the drive, during which Hannibal had the wheel. The road to Santa Cruz was hours paved with beauty and wonderment made fuller by their company. They stopped at one of many farms on the way and paid to pick fresh strawberries, where Hannibal claimed to know the owner.

The farm was, of course, to the left of the road, about two hours into the drive, the cliffs to the right further off from the road here, but not long away. Hannibal pulled off and drove down a dirt path with lush green on either side to a charming house that was too large to be a cottage but formated in the style of such. It was built with rust-red bricks and a slate tile roof with black paneling and a matching black garage. A small black wire gate with an archway encircled the front of the house and with a brick path started at the porch lead to the other side of the gate, was buried so that it faded into the earth a few feet outside the fence. Inside the gate, a small lush garden bloomed on either side of the brick walkway that led to the house. A man was waiting for them at the gate, a smile on his round face. He was about average height, a few inches shorter than Will but easily taller than Abigail, with brown curly hair neatly gelled back, and a short well-trimmed beard. He was wearing a dark tan suit jacket over a light blue striped shirt and charcoal grey slacks. He pulled the gate open as they approached, his eyes going first to Hannibal, then over to Abigail and Will, politely appraising them. 

“Doctor Lecter, hello!” The man said, stepping out to shake his hand. 

“Good to see you, Franklyn,” Hannibal replied with a cordial smile. “Franklyn, may I introduce Will and Abigail Graham. Will, Abigail, our kind host is Franklyn Froideveaux.” Will and Abigail shook hands with him and exchanged pleasantries. 

“How have you been?” Hannibal asked.

“I’ve been good, good,” The man spoke with an air of bashfulness. “Tobias is just out at market right now, hopefully, you’ll catch him before you leave.” 

“A shame to miss him. Does he still play?” Hannibal replied.

“As if he could be stopped! He would have catgut in the basement if I let him,” 

“Catgut?” Abigail was visibly horrified.

“For stringing violins!” Franklyn supplied immediately. “Not that it’s grizzly in its own manner. No worries. I’ve kept the cats safe for now. Finding a viable supply would be impractical, regardless. Would you like to come in?” He gestured to the house. Will glanced at Hannibal, and then at Abigail, who was observing the garden beyond the gates with wonder. 

“I had hoped to defer the lunch until after, perhaps if you don’t mind lending us the field,” Hannibal replied.

“Oh, of course,” Franklyn spoke so earnestly it was almost easy to forget it was his land they were standing on, his home they were being invited into. He had the demeanor of a man who was not used to carrying any social authority, though he seemed desperate to wield it well, his movement shaky and uncomfortable, his words laden with second guessings. It juxtaposed poorly with Hannibal, with whom if Will was not mistaken, Franklyn seemed to be very infatuated with, though it might have been only in a professional or platonic. Still, and perhaps this was only Will’s projection, it carried the bashfulness of an almost adolescent tone. “Let me give you a quick tour,” 

And so Franklyn walked them back out to the farm, where there were also blueberry bushes growing, and showed them the best areas to pick in. 

The strawberry plants were leafy and short with white flowers that bloomed at the top while the strawberries dangled from short vines. They plucked them with half inch long stems and deposited them carefully in baskets. Will straightened up several times to catch Abigail taking candid photos of them, the quiet  _ click _ of her phone’s shutter repeatedly giving her away. He did his best to ignore it; he always came out looking tense and uncomfortable in pictures if he knew when they were being taken, which was hardly surprising since knowing someone was taking a picture of him made him  _ feel  _ tense and uncomfortable. 

The had spent just an hour in the field when they all silently agreed their work was done, straightening up, brushing the dirt from their clothes (of which, on Will there seemed to be much). They compiled their pickings to two containers so as not to risk bruising the berries and returned to the small cottage.

Stepping through the gate, one was accosted by the smell the small florals on the mostly green plants bordering the walkway, the sounds of bees and flutter of butterflies. The scene was lovely and yet to Will, it seemed too quaint to be relaxing. He felt acutely the difference of his own birth, his meager savings, and small apartment as if they were written across his face.

There was a bronze knocker on the door and Hannibal approached it first, giving it two prompt knocks against the smooth, aged wood. After several moments a man opened the door. He was much taller than Franklyn, of average build black man with shorn hair. He was dressed finely, in a crisp blue button down with spread collar and tiny white vertical and lateral stripes under a well-fit grey cardigan with sand brown pants, but the most drawing thing about him were his eyes. They were a deep, dark brown, and after exchanging contact for only a second, Will felt slightly exposed. 

“Hannibal, it’s good to see you.” He said formally.  “Franklyn was so pleased to have you in our strawberry garden, I thought he might offer to build a home in it.” His tone was vaguely coy. His face seems to carry a measured quality, not at all unlike Hannibal’s own, expressive if withholding in it’s entirety. 

Amusement ghosted over Hannibal’s face.

“If only work would permit it.” He replied. 

“So, these are your guests: Abigail and Will Graham, is it?” the man asked, turning to them stiffly. “Hannibal mentioned you’d be joining him,”

There was a pause, during which Will felt the acute attentions of four scrupulous eyes on him, his own stubbornly fixed on second man’s nose, so as to feign eye contact. When he glanced, only briefly, into the pupils of the other man, he knew his ploy was obvious. He could feel Abigail shuffling next to him, could almost sense the tension building up in her bones, the suddenness of this assault making them weaker to combat it, as there was no mistake; they were being appraised.

“Sorry, I don’t believe we’ve gotten your name?” Will forced himself to speak.

“Ah, how rude of me. My name is Tobias Budge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, I could give a long-winded excuse for this late update, but instead, I'll simply say I (who live in Texas) unexpectedly found myself writing most of this in Alaska.   
> Not to worry, the next chapter is already half-written. Update soon.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOA, would you believe I accidentally deleted all my work on this chapter on accident RIGHT after I finished it? Thank god for google docs revision history, Jesus. Enjoy.

He held out a hand. 

Will reached out and took it; Tobias’s skin was skin cold and his grip tight, bones wrapped in leather. Any initial discomfort he’d approached with seemed to suddenly intensify, making the moments as their hands touched pass by in heavy seconds. 

“Please, come inside,” Tobias said, his voice masked in molasses. Hannibal led them into the house, his calm demeanor doing nothing to put Will at ease. 

“So, I see you had the run of the farm,” Tobias nodded at the berries. “How did you find them? You have good timing, peak season is ending soon,”

“Yes, I found them to be exceptional.”

“You’re making the drive to Santa Cruz, correct? We should store them quickly. The longer you wait, the quicker the decay, and I wouldn’t want to send you home with any bad apples, as they say.” Will swallowed the paranoia in his throat and cringed as it began to crawl back up his esophagus. The pleasantness of the morning seemed to be stealing away, slipping out of him and sinking into the immaculate floor of European ash. 

“So, Hannibal.” Tobias began, leading them into the foyer. It was of moderate size with a high ceiling with gold sconces and a three wide, adjoined windows that let in most of the light. There were two tufted armchairs with backs like shells, the soft color of seafoam sat on either side of the window , only just angled in each other’s direction, a white knitted blanket on the arm of the left with a small silver chess table between them. A lovely plush white rug juxtaposed with the dark flooring between them and a decorative table on which sat two silver candlesticks with white, untouched candles, and several books that looked well-taken care of, but used, and a lamp with a white glass shade. Flush on the other side of the table was a deep blue leather couch and two armchairs angled towards it on either side, an inglenook fireplace sitting directly across, a small second-floor balcony looking into the room just above it. Tobias and Franklyn insisted they sit and the latter disappeared briefly to stow away their berries. 

Hannibal, Abigail and Will settled together on the blue couch, Will still and uncomfortable in the center, though he was hardly constricted by space. 

“So, Hannibal,” Tobias began when he had returned, standing to the left of the armchair Franklyn had settled in. “I don’t believe you were entirely honest with us when you phoned last week,” his voice was friendly, lightly chastising, and yet, still maintained and air of removal.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Hannibal said courteously. 

“Aren’t you?” Franklyn seemed must more genuine and unrestrained in his words, his face openly smug but mostly trying to impress. “We were under the impression you were returning for a change of scenery. We even thought you might be moving your practice back to San Francisco.” 

Hannibal’s face allowed surprise.

“I apologize, then, it was never my intention to do so. In fact, the truth is, I’ve stolen this vacation from my dear friend here.” He inclined his head towards Will and ghosted a smile in his direction, inviting him to speak.

“Is that so?” Tobias asked, true incredulity in his voice, hanging in his eyebrows. 

“Will and I were just planning a fishing trip,” Abigail admitted. She seemed less ill at ease than him. So much of what came from her translated as shyness but was truly calculating. It was difficult to tell how much of it was genuine, even for her him. But regardless, she was stepping out of it, however slowly. “You can’t really do that in the city.” 

“Ah. San Francisco is a beautiful city, but not quite the ideal for such activities, as you know, Hannibal. Honestly, Hannibal, how rude of you, to commandeer them like this.” 

The house, the furniture, the gently but accosting smell of cinnamon, all seemed at odds with the two men before him. The pair themselves seemed at odds; both of them clearly intelligent and wealthy, but unlike. Franklyn Froideveaux seemed much the man of simpler needs, with the interests of higher things for the sake of an interest in higher things, the man who learns wines because he wants others to know he knows wines. Tobias Budge, contrarily, seemed more the man one would find only in those higher societies, not because he wanted to be, or even because he belonged there, but because he didn’t belong anywhere else. It was as simple as to say, Mr. Froideveaux seemed a man who was always looking up, while Budge looked down. It was easy to imagine them meeting in the middle, sure, but to linger? And then there was Hannibal, a man who stood on high ground but seemed to Will a man who chose to look neither up or down upon the world as from the high point of a mountain or the low advantage of a ditch, but as if from the clouds. The attraction to Hannibal then, of course, made sense, and it seemed more certain that they  _ were _ surveying Will and Abigail with intent, to have come so far on the will and buck of such a man. Even more, for them to be brought here, to be shown and spoken with. Did these men know the people Will had met at the party? What had they heard, if they had? He had stayed the night at Hannibal’s apartment, though it had neither the intent or the implication such a thing often carries with it. They were neither of them psychiatrists or involved in psychiatry, only higher living. 

“When Hannibal Lecter asks to pay for your vacation, you don’t disagree.” Will finally spoke, with more confidence than he expected from himself--especially considering he  _ had _ tried to disagree. “Wherever I’m fishing, I’m can always be back at the same stream I need to be, whenever I need to be.” 

“Ah,” Franklyn said, clearly impressed, as Tobias sat eyeing him for the first time with any real interest. “I see you’ve adopted his trick.” 

“Hardly fair to call it a  _ trick _ , Franklyn, I can hardly imagine any palace built by Hannibal can be anything but vast, whether it be those he produces on paper or that in his head. It’s rather impressive, Will, that you’ve picked up on the skill. Franklyn here can’t seem to manage to keep his focused.” 

“Skill?” Abigail asked, clearly just as out of the loop as Will was.

“The theory goes, if a man can construct a place in his brain, he can use it as dimensionally as he would an actual place,” Franklyn explained eagerly. “Like, if you had opened a new bank account and were trying to remember the new account number, in theory, you could store it in a folder on the desk of an office you’d built from scratch or from memory in your mind, and later if you needed it you could return there and remember it again.” He seemed aware but not at all discouraged by Tobias’s dig into his inability to sustain his own mind palace. 

“Oh,” Abigail replied. “Can you teach me, too?” She asked Hannibal.

“You need not be taught. You build your own palace just as Franklyn said, out of preference and creativity or from memories. My own is contrived of both. I’m afraid you both do Will a disservice, I taught him no such thing.” 

“Is that so?” Tobias said, not hiding his incredulity, but admitting the tenuous possibility. “That’s rather impressive, even if your structure is...limited.”

Will sighed. He gave up. If he had been brought here to be appraised, prodded and branded like cattle, he didn’t have to go along with it. Let them decide what they would, he had stood with patience and politeness long enough, Hannibal could hardly hold him accountable for any rudeness in the face of this treatment. It wasn’t worth his energy, not when he had so little, not when their trip had started so well. He checked out of the conversation, brought waves into the room to wash over the voices around him, using only minimal awareness to coast through the remainder of the visit, that is, until a hatch cracked through the bubble of noise he’d crafted around his head, and split his waves apart, bringing him back. 

“Hannibal seems quite fascinated by you.” 

Will blinked. He and Tobias were alone in the living room, Tobias still standing, but closer, now. Where had everyone gone? 

“We’re friends,” he replied, trying to hide his confusion. He had spaced out too far, for too long, like a passenger on a bus, too lost in the sights to realize they’ve already passed his stop. He was getting off too late. 

“He doesn’t place his interest lightly, nor does he often gift such...friendships. The fact that he brought you to meet us is alarming enough.”

“Alarming, huh?” his courtesies were slipping. “Didn’t think I’d made  _ that _ bad of an impression.”

“On the contrary,” Tobias said cooly. “You may not have let us seem much, but I think I saw enough to discern what Hannibal may have unearthed in you. But then you closed off, pulled down the shades and closed the shutters.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “Franklyn likes you, I can tell. But he’s easier to impress. Your sister-- I didn’t understand why he’d take the both of you along at first, but now I see it. She’s special too. You’re a set.” 

“We’re not books. We’re not collectibles.” 

“Still, there are worse things, than to be collected by Hannibal. He’s invested in you, Mr. Graham. Not like I’ve seen before.” Tobias said the words carefully, tasting them in his mouth before feeding them to the hungry air. Were they palatable? Will couldn’t tell, or more, Tobias couldn’t. “That’s not a common thing. It will be interesting to see what you choose to do with that.” 

“Where’d they go?” Enough pretense. He was ready to move on. 

“Rest easy. They went to get the strawberries. I can walk you out, if you like some fresh air, They should be out shortly.” 

Will stood up and followed Tobias back outside. He couldn’t have been space out for too long, it looked as though they’d only been there for just over an hour. 

“It’s rather quiet, living this far out,” Tobias said, looking past the garden gate and out on the road, just meters on the other side of which the cliff plunged into the sea. “Comes with the territory, if you want something this beautiful, you have to face seclusion, you have to sacrifice yourself for it.” his voice, still low and drawing, sounded different than before, a sliver of himself was seeping into them, making them personal. “This kind of life isn’t for everyone. It can be very isolating. Do you know what isolation feels like, Will? Granted, no matter what you do, you have to make sacrifices for happiness. Still, it can be trying, even with all of this.”

“There are other places to plant berries and sell catgut,”  Will replied dryly.

Tobias’s expression grew colder and he turned to look at Will, catching him off guard. His eyes, an endless deep brown, swallowed him and burned.

“You can pretend not to know what I’m talking about,” Tobias said curtly. “I’m just trying to give you advice. Whether or not you're smart enough to listen to is nothing to me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this rate, we'll never leave California!  
> Hoping to publish next chapter in about two weeks or less--it's, believe it or not!--already written! But I want to get a little ahead of the game and work on chapter 17 as well. As we're nearing the anniversary of this little thing, I really want to make sure I know what direction I'm going in and that I can see, or at least sketch out, my ending. I can't believe I've come this far. Thanks so much, guys. See you in two weeks (or less?!).  
> As always, you can find me on tumblr at ourdeathswillstopnothing.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> November the 4th was this stories one year anniversary! I can't believe it's still going!  
> Thanks so much to everyone who stuck around since the beginning! I see the end of the tunnel. I can't express enough what pride I have that some of you have stuck around.  
> Thanks for everyone who's joined along the way! Your new brought enthusiasm kept me going!  
> Thanks so So much to those who leave comments, I'm nothing without you.  
> IN the honor of that anniversary, some of the ideas in this chapter are fairly familiar. I wanted to pay tribute while also remaining true to what it is I wanted to write. I hope you all enjoy.

  


The sun in Santa Cruz was braver than it had been the past few stops, sneaking around the clouds and beating down the back of Will’s neck as they wove through the crowd. The streets were overflowing with people, but as they walked to the beach and got further from the pier, the sea of people started to thin. They found their way to the water, where a giant nature-made arc in the water formed an open-ended cave, and they climbed a small sloping cliff in search of tide pools and small communities of coral and sea anemones. It was quieter here, the ocean louder than the people scattered along the sand, and upon the rocks they were alone with the sea crashing up, splashing their legs if they stood too close the edge, and it wasn’t home, but it had some of the same feelings. The quiet rush of water humming in his ear, breeze sweeping through his hair and sneaking under his collar, though it was too bright and too warm and the smell of salt water reminded him he was in California.

They drove back before sunset so that they might catch sight of the beaches and cliffs before the night fog swallowed them, and it was then, two hours from the city that they pulled over for the last time.

Even from the car, they could see the view was stunning. As climbed out of the car, the sun, low in the sky, cast an orange hue over the sky as it slowly melted out of sight. Hairs on the back of Will’s neck rose as he stared out at the ocean stretching endlessly out before him at the ends of the cliff that jutted out ahead of them, and from where he stood Will could see that there was a small beach down between two places where the cliffs jutted out, like a crescent moon carved into them.

Abigail dashed out of the car ahead of them, weaving through the tall grass to the edge of the cliff. Her silhouette was cast into black against the dying orange sky, and at the cliff’s edge she crouched and peeked over. Will’s heart thumped hard in his chest.

“Abigail, be careful!”

Will and Hannibal trekked through the grass after her, Will taking care not to crush the yellow and blue wildflowers strung throughout the field as he followed the worn path to where Abigail straightened up and set her gaze down at the beach swooping low beneath them to their right below the jut of the cliff.

He slowed as he got to the edge, his hand clutching at her shoulder to pull her back a few steps if only to ease his nerves. Her gaze snapped away from the bluffs like a flower being plucked from a stem.

“Look, Will,” She said with wonder, and he looked.

While to the right, the small beach expanded beneath them, directly in front of them at the rounded cliff’s edge there was only water. The long, terrible drop, the sea crashing forcefully against the cliff, liquid jade adorned with giant, molten pearls of sea foam. A jut of land that must have once held hands with the small bay to their right from them, not quite as tall but reaching, illuminated by liquid gold sunbeams. He understood now, on the cliff, the temptation to climb down that rough path to the little beach below, to stand on the crisp golden sand under the small natural archway that took up the left corner of the beach. He understood the pull of standing so close to the edge of the cliff, and he didn’t try to pull Abigail back when he saw her step closer to it again. The three of them stood, still and alone together, staring into the sea.

“It’s so beautiful,” Abigail said softly. “I can't believe dad never brought us here.”

Will’s voice was nearly swallowed by the soft hush of the waves. “He wouldn’t like the people up here. They’re too sociable.”

He had the strange sensation that he’d felt this strange clutch in his chest before, a feeling of familiarity, near Deja Vu, but the same in its innocence, in its intent, in this company, all of which was, of course, impossible. There was a clean smell on the air, and he closed his eyes to pull it in, feeling it like fingers over his skin, through his hair, under the sleeves of his shirt and across his ankles, over his neck in his lungs, sifting through his veins. He felt the warm glow of the sun across his face, imagined it sinking into his pores and slipping under his eyelashes and igniting something soft and warm inside his body. He understood, suddenly, the urge to follow the call to the sea on a cliff, the water already rushing up, almost kindly, to catch him in its icy embrace. He felt Abigail’s hand, warm and tethering in his like an anchor to hold him here, to this moment, the heat of Hannibal’s body radiating from behind him. He opened his eyes and looked down into the terrible gasping air below, the great unyielding rocks that lifted from the ocean floor to kiss the open air, jutting out from the ocean. He looked at Abigail’s face, her expression honest and open but her gaze far away. He felt Hannibal’s gaze on him and he turned to meet it. Shadows cast across his face deepened the faint wrinkles but left the charm etched in his face. Their eyes met and he seemed to know, seemed to understand together the gravity of the moment with as much clarity as Will. He felt incomprehensibly vulnerable--as if he’d been cracked open like the clay wrapped roast Hannibal had served at the party Will had attended a lifetime ago. He felt a smile curve at the edges of his life, light quietly in his eyes, and saw the same response in Hannibal’s. It was all for only a moment, and then they were all looking at the sunset

“Let’s go down to the beach,” Abigail said softly.

“The sun is almost set,” Hannibal disagreed, “better to return another day than to die in the dark.”

Will spent a moment trying to picture himself doing the hike back up from the beach in the dark, and then nodded in agreement in spite of Abigail’s obvious disappointment.

With great effort, they pulled themselves away from the view and returned down the path through a field of flowers and tall grass and returned home. Abigail sat in the backseat with her window down for half of the drive despite the shivers the chill brought down her shoulders.

When they returned to the city, Hannibal parked in front of the apartment and they bought groceries from a small store up the block. Will handpicked ingredients for dinner, while Abigail and Hannibal selected wine. When they reemerged from the shop, it was the sky was blue-black, swallowed by cloud, and they walked home in silence.

Dinner was phyllo-wrapped halibut with scallion lemon sauce, a simple but old recipe that they paired with the Sauvignon Blanc Abigail had brought home and made their places at the small dinner table. The table was a short rectangle, with Will’s plate at the head of the table with Abigail’s to his left,  Hannibal to his right.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the same background knowledge on fish you might have,” Will admitted as he took his seat. “No analogies or higher meanings wrapped in the phyllo.”

“There are many discrepancies as to the origin of phyllo,” Hannibal replied as if to say, _but I do_. “The Greeks and the Turks both say baklava, in particular, originated with them, though even before them the Roman placenta cake claims origin.”

“That sounds grizzly,” Abigail said, smoothly uncorking the Sauvignon Blanc at the counter and laying the bottle opener and cork on the table. A smooth, soft fog rose from the glass and she brought it to the table and deftly half filled each of their glasses before setting the bottle at the center between them.

“The name’s implications are not as more foreboding than the actual product. It was simply layered cheese and honey on layers of dough and bay leaves.”

“Then why give it such a disgusting name?” She brought the wine to her nose and inhaled it lightly. Will doubtlessly had the worse taste for wine of the three of them, but he hadn’t known this until tonight when he’d seen her so fine an accompanying drink to his dinner with little guidance from Hannibal and none from him. She was 21, she was well within her rights to know her wine, but he’d rarely given her the chance to show any knowledge until now.

“The word placenta is latin for _cake_ .” Will laughed. “Shouldn’t _you_ know that? I took _French_ in college.”

“It’s practical latin, not baker’s latin,” She chastised. “Why do _you_ know that?”

Instead of replying, Will began to cut his food, smiling wryly.

“What are you laughing about?” She asked suspiciously.

Will looked at Hannibal, suppressing a grin, and Hannibal’s expression indicated clearly to Abigail that the two were sharing a joke she was not in on.

“A customer at work was giving my coworkers some trouble,” Will explained. “Always saying weird stuff, trying riddles. But, as you know,”

“--You love riddles.” Abigail broke in matter-of-factly, cutting the phyllo wrapped fish on her plate.

“No, I have a _nagging desire_ to solve riddles,” Will corrected pointedly.

“That’s why you called me to ask about the translation? All for some customer?”

“Abigail, this guy was coming in twice a week and ordering _specific items_ of the menu in the most contrived, enigmatic ways possible, and I was the only one who could figure out his orders.”

“Sounds like you guys were made for each other." 

They cleared the table but sat together, sipping wine and laughing about the origin of their friendship. They pressed Abigail more about school until the topic became too serious and they changed it again to Hannibal's work. Will and Hannibal had their second glass and then their third, uncorking another bottle as Abigail sipped still on her first. 

"You guys are going through that kind of fast," she remarked eventually, though truly two hours since the start of dinner had passed. 

Will, felt the flush of blood tickling his cheeks, the looseness in his muscles and didn't see the problem. His tension and his anxiety were taking a knee, for now.  


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, the Hiatus finally over. Life has been at my heels. From Novel Writing November to Finals, to traveling (for those of you who read these notes you're probably exasperated with my traveling excuses but guys! I got to go back to France! And I actually did a fair amount of writing this chapter while I was there....) and then I returned home and Immediately it was back to school!  
> Well, enjoy our penultimate chapter. Please, leave me comments, questions, anything you have! It means so much to hear from you guys.

The night was quiet outside. Abigail was upstairs, asleep or showering before sleep. It had been a long day for the three of them; not a bad day, necessarily, but a long one. They had gotten breakfast at a small cafe, walked the beach near their little house, and taken a long walk through part of Golden Gate Park. Foregoing lunch, they’d visited local stores and eventually made their way to City Lights Bookstore at Abigail’s request before ending with a night tour of Alcatraz. It had been eerie, and yet, fascinating, and, more than anything, it had been freezing cold. The three of them had huddled together, absolutely desperate to remain warm as they’d trekked up to the top of the island, the wind absolutely merciless.

Upon returning home, Abigail had, all layers still on, declared herself for hot bath and bed.

Their trip was almost over. Soon the humdrum of everyday life would return to them, and the familiarity which had been so generously cultivated between the three of them would be returned to a normalcy and averageness with which Will dread. He missed certain things about home; he missed, at times, the familiarity of his bed, of the sounds and talk of New York, he missed Beverly and his cat. But at times, despite that he had sought out New York City, despite the closeness of his friendship with Beverly, his comfortable position at work, his comfortably close distance to Abigail, he felt, with guilt at sometimes, that he might’ve preferred it here, had he the option to stay.

A bottle of white wine sat on the counter, its contents waiting to be aroused. Will and Hannibal were sitting in the living room, Hannibal in the single chair and Will melted into the couch.

“How are you feeling, Will?” Hannibal asked.

“Exhausted,” He smiled. “Not ready to go home.”

“I’m glad the city agrees with you.”

“I can see why you’d come back here. It’s so open, especially for a city. The beach is nearby, the weather is _mostly_ bearable, and...” he paused. “And it’s not home.”

“You’ve seemed more at peace here than I’ve seen you before.”

“You have to go fishing with me more often.” Will reply easily. “Where are you most at peace, Hannibal?”

“I can confess some partiality to Italy over others,”

“But you’re not Italian,” Will replied.

“No, my roots lie deeper etched in another country. I did not grow into myself, there, however. I was sent to live with my uncle in France after a brief stint in boarding school.” Hannibal said stoically.

“My dad used to say parents only sent their kids to boarding school for three reasons; behavior problems, divorce, or laziness.” Will arched Hannibal’s face to see if he’d be offended.

“My parents were gentle and loving,” Hannibal replied, looking only slightly affected by Will’s words. “I, however, was not. My uncle volunteered to tutor me over the summer break, and at the end of such, after such, no boarding school was required.”

“And then medical school in Italy,”

“Yes, and while France had much to offer in its streets, in its rolling countrysides, the fresh bloom of love and courtship and art...Italy sang a song it seemed only I could hear. I confess, however, wonder if anyone might ever hear it with me.”

“A song only you could hear.” Will chewed over the words. “I'm partial to Chopin myself, but I'd lend an ear.”

“Would that I could compose it for you.”

Will shifted in his seat, out of his reclined posture, saying nothing for a moment. “Can you compose ash? Can you write rebirth between the treble clefts, Doctor Lecter? What's the note for grief? The melody for melancholy and anger? Could you write knowledge and peace into a crescendo?” Will shook his head. “Some experiences are unique for a reason, I'm sure you have yours.”

Hannibal only looked at him, silence beating the moments dead. Will stood and went to the kitchen, took the unopened wine bottle off the counter peeled the foil off the top, untwisted it’s metal tab, and paused before he pulled the cork out with a loud POP! A whiff of mist escaped from the bottle as he poured into to glasses. He brought the glasses and the bottle back to the couch with him, setting the latter on the table and offering a glass to Hannibal, who took it appreciatively.  

“Not all of us have the luxury of finding ourselves in France or Italy, Hannibal.” He said. “Most of the time I think I’m still searching.”

“I could help you, Will. France is not so far I couldn't take you, nor is Italy.”  His hand slid across the back of Will’s neck. Warmth spread down Will’s neck and arms and he fought the urge to lean into the touch, though it seemed to seize him, tensing his muscles and tightening his jaw. It did not go unnoticed.

“You deprive yourself of touch too often, Will. Your body craves it like any other, you mustn't deprive it.” His eyes were soft and penetrating. “There are things that can only be communicated through touch.”

Will finished his glass in one swallow.  The accusation didn’t feel entirely on the mark. If Abigail was upset, he could comfort her. If he and Beverly had been drinking, they could sling an arm around one another. Jack and Price had their occasional moments, and he’d hardly shied away from women he’d tried to date.  “ _Who’s_ touch am I denying, exactly?” Will retorted. Hannibal had touched Will constantly since their meeting, always finding reasons, some natural, simple habitual movements towards a friend, others more. So many of them, _more_ ;  to say he had denied them? “Idle protests have hardly seemed to dampen your familiarity with me, Hannibal, and perhaps even less that of your hands. Your hands are scorching, but I’ve endured.”

“Have you merely endured? Am I brand placed upon your skin, so unwillingly?”

“It feels like a brand,” He swallowed. Looking at Hannibal was too much, sometimes. His eyes were too deep, entrancing, and the music in his soul seemed to pour out, deafening him. His expressions, emotions were jolts to his chest so that Will felt he should clutch his breast in earnest, though of course, he never did. It was in his cheekbones, too, in the clean line of his jaw, in the easy swoop of his hair, in the elegance of his posture--all of it was too alluring, too entrancing, and too real. Sometimes it seemed to take over his limbs. Even now, his hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tense. They felt like shortcomings of character, and in front of Hannibal, they were either astronomical, or they were nothing. The reality of Hannibal’s attraction to him was so unbelievable he often didn’t believe it. It was this, of course, that he could see was leading him so long down this trail of denial, or at least one of many reasons.

“Would it be so bad,” Hannibal tried. “To be marked in this way?”

“Tell me,”

“Will.”

“ _Tell me_ , Hannibal. Don’t lie to me, don’t waste my time. You wanted to have this conversation. Tell me. _Tell me._ ” He wasn’t pleading. He wasn’t. He w--

Hannibal placed his right hand on Will’s waste, and Will felt a shiver rise up his spine he was pulled into an embrace. Will looked at the depths of hazel in Hannibal’s eyes as he moved closer. He felt Hannibal tip his chin down, and bring their foreheads together. The action smoothed down the hackle’s of Will’s anxiety as they stood there, saying nothing. Hannibal’s arms were warm around him, his breath warm against his face. Will’s heart was pounding. Slowly, with great tenderness, Hannibal brought their lips together.

Warmth spread across Will’s cheeks in a pink bloom.  A thumb stroked his cheekbone. The hand resting on Will’s lower back pressed softly, moving their bodies to press together. It was the most intimate position he’d ever been in with another man; crowded them together possessively with lean body against lean body.  One of Will’s hands rested on Hannibal’s shoulder while the other hung awkwardly by his side. He pressed himself closer into the embrace, and Hannibal breathed a soft sigh.

Will’s eyes were still open, staring at Hannibal’s face. He seemed to sense that he was being looked at, because, without breaking the kiss his eyes opened and they looked at each other. Will’s heart, faltered and skipped painfully in his chest. Will began to kiss him back, and their lips glided smoothly against each other, exchanging warmth and quiet breaths. He closed the embraced and relaxed into the arms holding him. Then, with a sudden surge of feeling deep in his chest, he took control.

 _Are my ears ringing?_  He felt as if he were finally cleaving through the cloud of mist that seemed to come upon him whenever he and Hannibal became close. Only, it was replaced with a new, different blindness. He felt steadfast and he felt overpowered, his own desire, suddenly free and violent; he could think only of the fact that he was here, and that he wanted to be nowhere else.

The last kiss he’d had was from Chilton--an awkward, fumble of fevered lips against his own stiff, resisting skin. He had felt _wrong_ afterwards, like groped by an arachnid. But if he had used that experience to color his idea of being with men--being with _this_ man, he knew now it was wrong. There was nothing similar about them.  It was Hannibal. Impossible, gentlemanly, smug Hannibal. It all seemed too unreal. He sequestered himself in tighter, and kissed with more force, more eagerness, and was met with enthusiasm.

The kiss ended. Hannibal’s hand slid from his face to rest on his shoulder patiently. Their lips parted and Will bowed his head and laughed, feeling the red surge of blood tickling his cheeks and the back of his neck, a surge of unidentifiable emotion spread over him.

“Was _that_ denial?” Will asked, unable to help himself. He felt giddy, overcome with-- _something._ He was pulled as tightly against Hannibal as he could be, breast to breast, and yet it didn’t seem enough.

“Flickers of our time together are flitting through my brain, trying to pinpoint the exact moment where this began,” Will said. He was vaguely aware that he seemed to be speaking like Hannibal.

“Beginnings are seldom relevant unless the story is worth telling, ” Hannibal’s breath was warm on his forehead.

“ Your overtures were...” he paused. “Certainly worthy of being written,” Will said, eyes tracing individual threads of Hannibal’s sweater. With a soft touch, Hannibal raised Will’s head back up to see each other’s faces, and then he closed his eyes and kissed him again, and Will met him readily, reveling in the soft push of lips against his, a more explorative, more daring kiss. “I thought you were going to mention the origami tips at dinner the other night. You know, I couldn’t bring myself to unfold them.” He couldn’t stop talking, and yet, he hated it. He wanted only to hold the man, to kiss him, to--

“Sometimes to appreciate the true beauty in something we have to destroy it.” Hannibal chided, his thumb brushing over the light scruff of Will’s face, a small curve rising in his lips.

“Are you going to destroy _me_ , Hannibal?” Will said, feeling very daring. He was greatly torn; he felt both the urge to plunge deeper into his companion’s arms, to be lost and yet stabilized by the warmth of knowing this was real, to push the boundaries he had once understood. He felt also the keen urge to pull away, to look into the face of his friend, his--his _\--?_ To see the look melded into the skin, the way his eyes shown and his lips curved and the way shadows fell upon his face, to memorize the flesh and the man beneath it, to stare forever and ever. He felt urgency surging through his body, nervous and excited, and, like a fool, he did the only thing he could think to do; he brought their lips together again. He felt starving for the sensation.

“I think, dear boy, we shall have quite a time destroying each other. ”  Hannibal said, ending the kiss quick, and this time making the choice for Will, pulling back to look at Will’s face.

“If you keep smashing down my walls, there will be nothing left.” Will laid his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. He closed his eyes. He was so cocooned in the warmth and affection of this man, he could hardly breathe.

“I knocked down a barrier to let the dormant man in you free,” Hannibal said softly, his voice lifted with a quiet pride. “The man who emerged was always within you, I only heard his voice. Our time together has been all too valuable."

Will scoffed, burying his laugh in Hannibal's shoulder. “Talk all you want about courting. You just wanted a bagel.”

  



	18. Chapter 18

Outside their windows, people in the city rushed around with abandon. Sounds of life--car horns, cell phones, white static chatter, knocked against the glass but Will Graham, his eyes closed as he slept Hannibal's shoulder, was deaf to their call. 

Six months had passed since their impromptu trip to Californa. There had, for both Will and Hannibal, no question of turning back. 

Abigail was the first to know and received them with bright giggles and sardonic teasing for the rest of the trip. When Will was showering, she sat with Hannibal and spoke seriously about her concerns for her brother and evaluated his responses. In return, he asked her about school and her own health and suggested she discuss with Will some of her concerns. The next morning, while Hannibal was on a run, her brother brought her coffee and she asked him if he was happy. Will had talked with embarrassment and candor about his hopes for the relationship, biting off the words that he felt it was too early to say. 

"It really feels like a family again with the three of us, Will." She'd told him. "I think we need this. I know I do." 

And Will had sighed and nodded, understanding. 

"Don't screw this up?"

She nodded. "Don't screw this up." She replied, and she smiled into her coffee.

 

Upon returning home, Will had dinner at Beverly's (following a  _very necessary_ cleaning session), asked her how she had been, and smiled at her eye rolls, laughed at her jokes, and brought them more beer everytime they finished a drink. When she, halfway through the evening, turned the spotlight on him, he laughed awkwardly and said;

"About Hannibal," and immediately, she knew. She gave him a hard time about it, at first, but he could tell by the way she spoke and the tension in her muscles it was more because of her concern and affection for him than anything else. She didn't insist on a dinner over which to pick apart the intestines of his new relationship but pressed for a lunch alone with Hannibal that he agreed to with more ease than he would have the dinner. 

"I hope this means more than just a relationship to you, Will. I hope you can use this opportunity to be real with yourself when you know you want something. And when you know you don't." She said, leaning against this counter with a glass of a cheap blush wine in each of their hands. "Do you understand?"

Will, who had done his best to tune down his natural defenses before delivering this information, which he would rather have not delivered at all, swallowed dryly and said nothing for a moment. It had been at the behest of Abigail that Will had sat down to talk to Beverly directly - his natural inclination being more sporadic and less direct. 

"What's that look?" Beverly asked, taking a measured sip of her wine. "We gonna go get take out, or what?" 

It took him a few days to figure out exactly what it was that she meant - his next day at work. It was on that day that he spoke to Jack, and gave his two weeks notice. It gave him flittering feelings of fear to do it, and yet, it was time. Past time. Jack had nodded and prodded him to stay, the way he knew he might, but Will was sure and firm. In the end, Jack seemed more impressed by this determination than he did disappointed by his notice, and he offered a grim smile and said; "You can always come back here, if you'd like, Will. I like having you around. But keep in touch, unless you want me pounding down your door twice a month." The words had made him smile.

He put together, in due time, a resume, and began taking interviews for a full-time job. He began looking at places outside of the city where he might one day live; the solemn solitude of a house in Virgina, where he could see himself surrounded by dogs, that he might afford in a year or two. A place on the beach in the south, going out to fish in the mornings, but in the end, he was always called back to the same place. California, for all its faults, seemed to be the place his heart was set on. He didn't like the distance, nor did he much care for the cost, but if he did more saving than spending in the next few years he could move out there in a reasonably small place once Abigail graduated. He wanted to try to be here, until then, if he could stomach it. If he could afford it. 

Hannibal, of course, would offer to foot the bill for all of these things, or at least to share it, if he were allowed. Will wasn't completely opposed to the idea, but it still somewhat struck wrong in his belly. It was too soon to imagine that life, so easily available to him, it seemed. Hannibal was clearly not the type of person who believed in following the social expectation of relationship progression, but Will was still too new to all of this to take it so easily. He would wait and see. He was not yet ready to give up the decently sized apartment just a short walk away from Beverly's, where he'd spent many nights lazying about with here, where Abigail might come and crash on the couch, where he was comfortable, and where he'd shared hot chocolate with the man so determined to be in his life. He might be, someday, maybe even someday soon, but for now, he was content with making the trips to Hannibal's apartment and took advantage of Hannibal's willingness to acquiesce to his needs.

On his last day of work, he felt a small sensation within his throat, like a tiny string about to snap,  even as he knew he'd return to visit, if for Beverly's sake more than for Jack's, though he liked the man well enough. He didn't know yet how important that friendship, now freed of the constraints of authority, would one day become to him. He said a final goodbye to his coworkers, to the early mornings and the small burns and the rush of people, to the smell of fresh food and coffee that lingered on him for days after work. 

The string seemed to snap when he went out that door. Like the tiniest threat, in his throat. It wasn't good, or bad, it simply was. _Snap_. He was meeting Abigail for lunch in a few, and he had a sneaking suspicion Hannibal had also been invited, and he was bright and happy at the idea of seeing their faces, celebrating his freedom. He thought maybe, things were going to be okay. And later that afternoon, looking into the eyes of this new family, he knew he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. It's the end, finally. I'm sorry it took so long. I got so swamped up in life and stress and distracted and I just gave up for a while. To everyone who kept giving me little, sweet budges and words of encouragement to finish, I did it almost exclusively because of you. Thank you for that little push. I know it's not much, and I know it's got that sort of feeling of something being wrapped up, but it's an ending. I hope it's not a bad one. Thank you all for reading, thank you for waiting, thank you for putting up with all my typos. Thank you.  
> One funny thing, I can't remember if I ever said - Hannibal was actually almost a cannibal in this fic. You can once again thank my dear friend on tumblr, who inspired me to write this, for avoiding all the angst that would've led to. I'm glad I went in this direction instead. Will deserves a break.
> 
> As always, you can come and find me on [tumblr](http://ourdeathswillstopnothing.tumblr.com), if you'd like.


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